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Toronto Public Library. 

Reference Department. 






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With the Women Who WaTt' ' 



[By -Kit' |1 

IT is not man only that War grips — 
crushing the heart — but it is 
Woman as well. Woman, the 
non-fighter, the passive, the pati- 
ent being. In time of war a burning 
anxiety to be doing something seizes 
her. It sets her to knitting socks, 
night caps, wristlets. Every bone, 
every nerve in her wants to help. The 
whole sex, from the girl of sixteen, the 
young mother brooding over her babes, 
the single woman of forty and over, to 
the grandmother, is simply a mother 
now. There is nothing not sex — 
though motherhood is the outlet of 
sex for a woman — so strong in a 
feminine creature as maternity. To 
help "the boys," to keep them warm, 
snug; then to kneel down and pray 
for them — this is woman in war time. 
When her mourning hour comes, few 
will see her tears. 

Not to many women has it come to 
see blood shed in war time. It is not a 
nice sight. Time accustoms the ear 
to the sound of guns booming, to the 
sound of cannonading, of explosions. 
Just as we become accustomed to 
hearing carts and cars rattle along the 
streets so we may become accustomed 
to hearing the crash of artillery. But 
not all shot men die easily. 

The writer — naturally not in woman's 
apparel — once lodged in a trench in 
company with a New York newsboy, a 
little beggar who had "beat" his way 
down on the Seguranca, the Comal — 
but the name of the transport doesn't 

CopyriskI, 1914, by the 

matter. It was a queer lodgment and 
an odd comradeship. But we saw 
things. Better we had never seen 
them. They will not bear description. 
Such would affront you, harass you, 
haunt you. Suffice it, the child and 
the woman were trembling. Only in 
the mind of the woman motherhood 
was working. She had a little fellow 
of her own, at home in Canada — a 
small sturdy man, such as these grown 
and ardent men were once to their 

In WartimeWoman' Mothers' 

[Not Only Her Own but 

All 'the Boys' 

A man doesn't grow away from his 
mother. He thinks he does, but she 
knows otherwise. She sits silent, and 
very proud, while he is out fighting — 
making a position and a name for 
himself in the big battle we call Life. 
But let him ail, let him grow sick or 
weak, and he — big and brawny and 
fine — is just her baby again. 

And this is how a woman feels 
in war time. She mothers not only 
her own, but all "the boys." From 
fine house and little home alike the 
women have knit their love with every 
twist of the needle into the loops of 
wool. Out in the country can the 
farmer's wife or girl tell what lad will 
be wearing the work of her hands ? 
Does she care ? Not she. She is 


working for her boy. He may be 
another's but he is hers for the hour. 

In the Cuban-American war a prom- 
inent member of the Daughters of 
the Revolution told me that five thou- 
sand pyjamas, each with a loving and 
encouraging note in the breast pocket, 
had been sent to the "boys in blue" at 
the front. So far as I know not one 
sleeping suit ever reached the men at 
Santiago. Where they went I cannot 
say. Perhaps to the Sisters' Hospital 
at Key West; perhaps to Tampa. I 
never saw, during three months' last- 
ing, one soldier in anything but the 
uniform he came down in, in May, and 
which was glued to his back by blood 
and sweat. 

And the great want of the men 
seemed to be food and tobacco. The 
heavy kit was thrown away. The 
Cuban negroes — for that is all they 
were — followed calmly and picked 
things up. It struck me then, as now, 
that the things most needed for men 
on the march are canned food in the 
way of soup, or pemmican, and 'baccy. 
I know that there are good ladies who 
are averse to giving a chap a smoke. 
But one can go too far with that sort 
of notion. Were I a millionaire, or 
half one, I would give my l^s.aJl they 
wanted for a bit of smokfc'. "* •■■ •:/ , ,_ 

They make fun .of. a woman in' Jar. 
They had their iojfe out with me h\ 
Cuba. It was an Englishman who 
wrote his joke for, i think, the Londoh 
Daily Mail. He rather laughed Ht 

rights reserved ,■ 


the "woman-war correspondent" in 
that lofty English way. He made 
delightful fun of her. But I think, 
she "beat him to it." At least one 
never met him in Cuba and the news- 
boy in the trenches knew nothing of 
him. A lamed Cockney — how ever 
did he get there ? — to whom one told 
the story, merely remarked. 

"'E worn't a pard, were 'e. Missus ?" 
— Which consoled one. 

Coming home on the transport 
Comal, was not exactly heaven. The 
men aboard were sick. The corres- 
pondents were weary. So was the 
woman. She, lucky individual, had a 
whole stateroom to herself, with a 
mattress, sans sheets, covers, towels. 
And filled with cockroaches. The 
food at the officers' and correspondents' 
table was — rotten. More I dare not 

But, and this is war as the woman 
who is writing saw it: — 

E worn't a pard, were 'e, missus? 

Therp v'as ^ big man aboard, one of 
the •RcfygJi' -Riders. His chum and 
pa>jV-;Ohe known .jyidely as "Bucky 
Q^Nfeill," was shot-€)H the side of a hill, 
a'Ad every day, thf&jjoor, shaken, big, 
fin* fellow, would iVy amid his tears, 


his stifling groans, to tell how his 
friend, whom later he went out to 
rescue, had had "his eyes picked out" 
by the baldheaded johnny crows of 
the tropics. • 

I thought then, as I think now, of 
that verse in Revelation: "And I saw 
an angel standing in the sun; and he 
cried with a loud voice, saying to all 
the fowls that fly in the midst of 
heaven, 'Come and gather yourselves 
together unto the supper of the great 

'That ye may eat the flesh of kings, 
and the flesh of captains, and the flesh 
of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, 
and of them that sit on them, and the 
flesh of all men, both free and bond, 
both small and great." 

And down there, down in Tampa 
before the boys moved, it was the 
baskets from the mothers and wives 
and sisters at home that helped. Listen 
to what a "little ofificer boy" said to 
me. Maybe he 
wasn't very grand 
as to grammar, but 
he was a fighting 
man and a "good 

"It ain't no pic- 
nic," said the boy 
officer, in a plain- 
ti ve voi ce. "I 
tho ught it was 
when I came, but 
I'm getting that 
drove right out of 
me now. If it 
wasn't for the 
baskets our folks 
send along, I don't 
know what us 
boys'd do." 

"Do you really 
get baskets ?" 

"I guess we do;" 
the young fellow's 
face cheered up 
wonderful ly. 
"There's hardly a 
day but some of 
the fellows get stuff 
from their mothers 
or girls. At first 
I couldn't eat ra- 
tions at all, but 
I'm gettin' over 
that, and think fat 
bacon and hard 
tack are not so 
bad after all. Of 
course the good 
things from home 
help us out." 

"Children," I said to myself, as I 
bade good evening to the young fellow, 
and turned away towards the Florida 
lines, "just children, in spite of all 
their guns and valour and eagerness. 

God bless my soul, what a big part 
women have to play in the world after 
all: We have to mother them, the 
poor boys of the world, from the cradle 
to the grave." 

War Brings Greater Anguish 

to Those Who Can Only 

"Sit and Knit" 

And if one felt it then — the big 
mothering heart stirring — what of it 
now ? All women everywhere are 
feeling it. The German haus-frau — 
ah, think of her without news, waiting, 
listening; the Frenchwoman, buoyant, 
daring, and adorable, thinking of poor 
brave and laughter-loving "Piou- 
Piou." The women of Britain, silent, 
patient, bearing women; the women 
of Canada of the same grim, grand 
old breed. Do not think for a mo- 
ment that we sit at our ease. The 
passive role is more difficult than the 
active one. There are few of us 
Canadian women, who would not 
gladly gird ourselves for the fight to 
hold together the mighty empire, now 
warring to help those weaker than she 
is; to guard the children, to do "big 
things," to help put down a mad 

Alas ! we can do nothing but sit 
and knit ! 

But the spirit of patriotism bums 
brightly throughout this wide Domin- 
ion. You have heard no note of com- 
plaint, no whining from the women. 
They have given — God ! God ! what 
have they not given ! The little maid 
on your floor has delightedly given 
her "quarter." The poor charwoman 
has given her man, and her "quarter." 
The old woman round the corner has 
given the work of her weary old fingers. 
Oh, but these are tributes. But the 
greatest — the mother has given her 
boy ! 

No one remembers how beautiful 
once were the flowers in the garden; 
how trimly kept the gravel walks; 
how well cooked the joint, the fowl, 
the fish for dinner, how well and 
daintily laid the table; how well 
minded through puling, crying nights 
— the baby. 

All woman's work — every hour and 
all the time ! The little as well as the 
big things. 

And now we are forced to sit 
quiet ! 

Last night in my home town there 
came the blare of the bugle, I went to 
the window. The boys in khaki were 
marching. The street resounded to 
the tramp of their feet. And I began 
to cry. The drum seemed to be beat- 
ing on a human heart — 

And, oh believe me — I wept. 




e- . 


:,.'■- "^IVii^;-.^ 



Napoleon Wins 





By George Randolph Chester 

Author of "A Smash in the Ear," 
Rich-Quick Wallingford," etc. 


Illustrated by C. M. Relyea 




the gate of the modest Smith 
residence at a good round clip, 
for he had his usual scant 
seconds to catch theeight twenty-seven. 
An elastic step at his side suddenly 
swung into perfect accord with his 
heel and toe rhythm, and a young voice, 
which nevertheless sounded like that of 
a "regular man," bade him' a very 
cheerful good morning. At that mo- 
ment Captain Hammond was answer- 
ing the morning mail which he had not 
yet seen. The Eureka Iron Mills was 
behind in its orders, and there would 
be not less than eight fiery protests 
from complaining customers. Without 
looking around, he merely said, "Unh !" 
' "Mr. Hammond, I want a job," was 
the next remark of the voice. Captain 
Hammond was just then answering 
rsuppositious letter number six, which 
-was about the worst of the lot; so he 
-frowned and turned to find himself 
looking slightly upward, straight into 
the grin of young Napoleon Smith. 

Now the grin of young Napoleon 
-was the most infectious and ingratiat- 
ing joy ever devised. Every feature of 
his well-muscled face took part in it, 
from his blue eyes to his white teeth. 
It shot right at you; it warmed the 
cockles of your heart; it made your 
world a bright and a cheerful place to 
live in, and it made you firmly believe 
that whatever Napoleon Smith said or 
did was just about right. 

Meeting that grin. Captain Ham- 
mond relaxed and smiled in spite of 

"What can you do ?" he asked, look- 
ing at young Smith again, this time 
-critically and a little enviously, too; 


for a clear, boyish 
complexion and an 
athletic body full of 
good, sound nerves 
are gifts which pass 
with youth. 

"Hustle," stated 
young Smith in reply 
to the question. 

This time Captain Hammond laugh- 
ed outright. 

"That's the most valuable asset you 
can own," he declared. "Your name's 
Smith, isn't it ?" 

Napoleon admitted that it was. 

"How you kids do grow up !" said 
the captainwonderingly, with a thought 
of his own gray head. 

The eight twenty-seven just then 
whistled for Briarscot, and both men 
started to run. 

"Bless me," puffed the captain, when 
they had plumped into a seat and were 
speeding onward, "even golf don't 
restore my wind. Do you golf ?" 

"Not yet," replied Smith, shaking 
his head and grinning. 

Again Captain Hammond laughed. 

"You're right that it's an old man's 
game, after all; also it's a delusion and 
a snare. Fat old men lose no weight 
at it, and thin ones gain no muscle." 

"But about that job ?" suggested 
young Smith again. 

"Oh, yes," said the captain, and un- 
. consciously he frowned once more. 
"I don't know of a thing at our place. 
We're crowded with applications, but 
I don't suppose those applicants are 
all hustlers. You say you've had no 
business experience at all ?" 

"None that I care to tell about," 
replied the other, smiling reminiscently. 
"All through college I served as a cor- 
respondent for various papers, and 
through vacations I worked on general 
assignments on the World. It was a 
good school. I met a lot of business 
people in that way, and became ac- 
quainted with a queer lot of business 
methods. I could go to work on the 
Herald now, but the occupation doesn't 

seem to promise much of a future." 

The captain nodded his head with a 

"Choosing a profession is like making 
a wise investment," he said. "Not one 
in a hundred succeed in picking the 
right ones. I understand your father's 
estate didn't cut up quite so well as 
was expected ?" 

"No," returned young Smith cheer- 
fully. "It totaled to exactly nothing, 
and nothing to carry. You don't think 
then, that there is anything in your 
place ?" 

"Not just now," said the captain. 
"However, I shall bear you in mind." 

Napoleon arose and looked at the 
captain and merely grinned. 

"Pardon me," he said, "I see one of 
the scouts of the Tribune up there; he 
may know something," and he made 
his vigorous way to the forward end 
of the car. 


Captain Hammond strode into his 
office and fired off his usual morning 

"Where's Bluffing ?" he demanded. 

"Not down yet," said the girl of the 
straw-colored hair, slightly worried. 

The captain went into his usual 
morning fit of temper, and in that 
attitude pounced upon the letters of 
complaint, of which fortunately he 
found only four. Two of the answers 
he tore up later in the day, for they 
were undiplomatic. About half an 
hour later, Bluffing, a young man with 
a big straw hat and puffs under his 
eyes strolled in, smoking a cigarette, 
and, after a moment's deliberation,, 
decided that he might as well work as 

"Mr. Bluffing," said the captain, 
"I'd like to remind you that the 
address of this office is 710 Green 
Street, and that we look forward 
with eager anticipation to the pleasure 
of your society between the hours of 
nine and twelve and one and five. If 
those hours seem a trifle inconvenient 
to you, you might state so in 



writing and I'll put the matter up to 
the Board of Directors." 

"Very sorry, Mr. Hammond," said 

Bluffing, with a wink at the straw- 

r haired girl. "You see, we got caught 

^in a jam at " 

"I don't give a continental what held 
[you," responded Mr. Hammond, 
i having just found a fifth complaint, 
t which he had overlooked. "The point 
I is that we want you here at nine o'clock, 
with no excuse short of a broken leg." 
On the second mail an excessively 
large order soothed the captain some- 
what, and at noon the arrival of a tall, 
black-haired young lady with a color 
in her cheeks which never came from a 
chemist's shop, soothed him still more. 
"I suppose you have a lot of old 
business engagements for luncheon, 
haven't you, daddy ? Now tell me 
yes," she said. 

"But I am going to tell you no," 
replied the captain, all smiles. 

"Then," she informed him with a 
mock courtesy, "I am going to allow 
you to buy some eclairs and things for 
a stunning young lady to whom you 
may point with pride." 

"By George, Margie," said the cap- 
tain, now as gentle as any suckling 
lamb, "how you have developed ! 
There is just a little bit of a pang in that 
last remark of vours. Some of these 

days it will be some 
other fellow's place to 
point with pride and 
fill all other male 
hearts with envy." 

"Indeed !" she said 
quite loftily. "Maybe 
that time has already 

"Who's the fellow?" 
he wanted to know, 
with a genuine anxie- 
ty which he carefully 
attempted to con- 

"Oh, lots of them!" 
she gayly returned. 

"Oh !" he exclaim- 
ed, much relieved. 
"My 1 My ! My ! 
Margie, it only seems 
yesterday that you 
were a little bit of a 

"You oughtn't to 
remind me of it, dad- 
dy, because while no 
woman wants to be- 
come old, it takes 
such a long, long 
time to grow up. And 
while they may in- 
dulge in fairy-tale 
wishes, growing up is 

indeed there s not room, declared rhxy. 
I'm making love" 



the biggest thing that kids really want." 

He laughed and closed his eyes for a 

"That's twice to-day I've remarked 
how kids grow up," he said. "I had a 
queer experience this morning with 
young Smith, up in our suburb." 

"Pole Smith ?" she inquired. 

"Pole 1" he repeated. 

"Yes; Napoleon, you know. We 
called him Pole because he was such a 
gangling, spindle-legged youngster 
when we organized the Briarscot Tennis 
Club. Since he's grown handsome he 
doesn't like the name very much, so 
we call it to him all the time. 

"You know him pretty well, then ?" 

"Why, he fairly haunts our front 
porch ! Haven't you seen him there ?' 


"Yes, you have, I know; but you're 
a fine, trustful daddy, and you never 
put a microscope on the young men I 
bring around." 

"How could I, Margie ?" he said, 
clasping the hand which had rested 
upon the edge of his desk. "How 
could I, when in every speech and in 
every action and in every thought you 
are so nearly the image of your dear 
mother ?" 

"That's nice," she said, pulling his 
ear. "I don't believe any of the young 
men ever said a prettier thing; to me. 
They're all nice-saying young men, too." 

"What sort of a fellow is this_^Pole 
Smith ?" he asked. 

Continued on page 57. 

The Case of 

TIME, the present, is a barrier 
developed by our inability to 
see behind or ahead. When 
we cease to be, we, the fussy, 
foolish little snow-fort builders who 
play that gold is to be striven for, 
kings are to be obeyed, Paris is to be 
taken, then Time will cease also among 
the rest of the illusions and from rim 
to rimof Eternity what has been, will 
be what is; and what is to be, 
will be the inescapable resultant of 

You've read about God, perhaps, 
and a Great White Throne and Books 
to be opened? If it were not so 
written, it would in any case have to 
be. Else how should Kaiser Wilhelm 
II., who never stepped foot in Canada, 
come to know about — and to pay for 
- — the case of Margie Fiske? 

Nineteen years ago when the War- 
lord was planning to get Heligoland 
and build the Kiel Canal, to smash 
England on the sea and ram his bay- 
onet down the hot throat of Paris, 
Margie lay under Ontario appletrees 
because her mother'd put her on her 
back and she hadn't yet found out 
how to crawl. 

To-day, the Kaiser had the island 
and the canal. He also thought he 
had Paris. And Margie, sitting out 
on a park bench, had her last paycheck. 
Generally speaking, Margie was all 
big blue eyes and a grin. She could 
also do the maxixe with the gum-wad 
she kept under the edge of Fulton- 
Mackenzie and Co.'s typewriter desk 
better than any of the seventeen 
Pitmanettes in her department. Margie 
herself had no shorthand since she 
had never dug up the money nor 
the ambition to study. She just did 
the invoices that the office slapped 
on her desk from eight-thirty to six. 
And when they were done, she grinned. 
You can smile just because you're a 
girl. But you've got to have a sense 
of humor under your tango twist to 
know enough to grin. 

Margie Fiske 




By Betty D. Thornley 

Illustrated by Helen A. Haselton 

But there was no grin now. 

Five weeks ago "They" had declared 
War. Margie hadn't followed the 
career of the Kaiser either before or 
since. She just knew that there were 
newsboys. And bands. And autos 
with flags — she had bought one for a 
dime. And Dick from the Billing 
was in the Q. O. R. 

It was all very exciting and a little 
shivery. But it didn't distract in the 
least from the pleasure of the new 
$10.50 black velvet peach of a hat 
with the dead-white flowers that she 
couldn't afford — and bought of course 
— out of her eight a week. Neither 
did it injure the taste of the cocoa she 
and Beryl made on their one-burner 
oilstove and served to the 
two boys who sat on two 
steamer trunks in their one- 
room "flat." 

"You'll be hearin' of the 
War first thing you know," 
Fred had said only last night. 
Fred was Beryl's cousin and 
a steady at the flat. "Some- 
body told me the Fulton- 
Macks were goin' to drop a 
few thousand men. You 
girls'd have nothin' to do 
but visit." 

"Gee," sighed Beryl, 
"wouldn't that be the fun ! 
Wisht Mr. Graham'd enlist. 
Of all the crazy, cross — ■ — " 

And so on into office gossip 
which is quite as thrilling as 
the society kind, and apt 
to be truthfuller. 

Next day was pay day, 
always a roseate dream and 
a bad fulfiller. Eight dollars 
looked so big and green and 
crackly in prospect, and so 
hanged little when you went 
to pay for one of those new 
capes, or a fall suit, or even 
a swell pair o' pumps and a 

But this pay-day — 

Margie shivered in the late summer 
twilight as she recalled it. She could 
hear Miss Wallace yet. 

"I'm sorry. Miss Fiske, but you see 
the firm's slack and so — ■" 

Yes. And so — ■. Double pay. The 
Fulton-Macks were good through every 
inch of their church-going souls, but 
you couldn't keep a bunch of steno- 
graphers when you'd just dropped 
seven and a half millions in first pay- 
ments due on goods shipped to three 
hell-blazing European countries, could 
you ? They'd cut three thousand five 
hundred men from their factory pay 
roll and they'd dropped twenty in the 
office. It was all perfectly fair and 
necessary, granted the Kaiser. But 




it was infernally hard on Margie. 

She had turned away dazed. Last 
night Fred and — and the other man, 
had discussed one's chances of landing 
another job under present abnormal 
conditions of the labor market. To 
be sure, the other man had been hold- 
ing Margie's hand as he talked, and 
words don't carry a very clear signi- 
ficance, when one's brain is busy else- 
where. But she had gathered enough 
to be jolly glad the gum- 
wad under Desk Three was 
her gum-wad. 

And now — 

Yes, they might need 
her back. Say in six 
months, if Kitchener held 
heaven on his side. But 
■even at that, what was a 
girl to live on with nothing 
.a week, and five owing on 
her hat, and Beryl, also 
jobless, going home to 
Woodstock to her mother ? 

That brought back the 
stingingest memory of all, 
the horrible haunting thing 
that had sent her out un- 
der the trees to think. 

Margie had met — him 
— outside the office, drop- 
ping in with his samples. 
For even if half the stafT 
"was to be dismissed, the 
Test woukd need carbon 

"Hello, Marg !" The'd 
said, with the quick light- 
•ening ot his eyes that filled 
her cheeks with blazing 
-color and sent the blood 
pounding into her brain. 

She had managed to tell 
him about the lost job. 
He'd whistled. Told her 
to wait a jifTy. Disap- 
peared behind the glazed 

-door and come out again. i. 

Then they'd gone for a 

God ! how it hurt. 

She remembered that she had hesi- 
tated, stammered, hated herself for 
her doubts. He had been so very out- 
spoken about his love all summer and 
-so strangeily reticent about its future. 
But now, in view of this tumbling to 
pieces of her financial universe, she 
just had to know. 

So, with the queer directnesss that 
she'd got from some U. E. Loyalist 
north-trekking ancestor, she finally 
asked him, straight out, when it would 
be. Even then — heaven help her — he 
had not understood. 

"Marry you ?" he had said at last, 
bewilderment, incredulity in his tone, 
"but I don't want to marry anybody, 
kid ! Did I ever say I did ? Honest, 
you're a good little pal, you know, but 
.a man like me can't afford to keep a 

wife. Love you ? Of course I do. 
And I know you're straight too, but I 
don't want to tie up anywhere. I'm 
only twenty -four and I've got my place 
to make." 

They were walking down King 
Street, but Margie didn't hear the 
clang of the street cars, nor the hand- 
organ grinding out the Miserere. She 
j ust heard Beryl's voice as they'd looked 
into the bureau drawer last night. 

THE LAST maid's CAP 

"Say, Marg, ot all the swell lonjree! 
Honest, I never knew you could sew 
till you was engaged." 

Yep. She'd told her that. Mar- 
gery had been brought up in the 
country and she was unsophisticated 
enough to think — poor little blue eyes — 
that when a man told a girl, a good 
girl, that he loved her, when he came 
night after night and taught her to 
love him till the world held nothing 
else, that then of course he meant 
orange blossoms, and a wedding ring, 
and other things too shyly holy to 
even think about. 

She had got away somehow without 
letting him see. Or did he see and 
just not care ? Anyhow, she wouldn't 
risk being at home to-night in case he 
came. Beryl would say she had a 

headache. If she were home and 
heard his voice she would go to him 
of course. She knew that. So she'd 
stay under the trees. 

Far away there was a band playing 
"O Canada." They were drilling, 
those excited boys. Well, that was 
easy. It was something doing any- 
how, something to look forward to. 
A bullet in your brain was better than 
an ache in your heart. Margie spread 
her little thin left hand 
out on her black skirt. 
There 'd never be a wed- 
ding ring there now. 

The clock tolled ten. 
He'd have come by this 
time, found Beryl at her 
packing and gone away. 
She could go home. Be- 
yond that, she had no idea. 
All the offices were cutting 
down their staffs and the 
factories were turning 
away 1 old ^ hands. Miss 
Wallace I had suggested 
service but, like most in- 
dependent young Cana- 
dians, Margie resented in- 
vitations to use the back- 
door and entertain friends 
in the kitchen. Besides, 
she had her double en- 
velope. Even with the 
hat money out, that left 
eleven dollars. And the 
rent was paid for two 
weeks longer. She could 
live a long time on eleven 
dollars if she was careful 
Very slowly she'walkej 
home . 

trying *o rearrange he 
views of life. There was 
just Margie, now — no little 
home with a window-box 
and a canary and a kitten 
like she'd had long ago m 
the country, no shadowy 
Somebody to cook for an<i 
to tidy up after. There 
wasn't even any soul- 
numbing office to go to to-morrow. 
And some other girl would find the 

"Did he come ?" she asked Beryl, 
bending over toward the mirror so's 
her roommate wouldn't see. 

"Yeh," said that lady, still stuffing 
shoes and blouses and picture post- 
cards into her trunk, "he was some 
mad too, believe me. He wanted to 
come in and see if you was sick like I 
said but I wouldn't let him. What'd 
you quarrel about ?" 
"Nothing," said Margie. 
Beryl was going to-morrow and 
needn't know. Thank heaven that 
little bit of humiliation was spared. 

Next morning Margery went down 
to the Union to see her friend off. 
When you've no job you might's well. 


"Write first ?" 

"No, you write first." 

"No, you. I wanta know about 
you an'- — you know — " 

On her way uptown Margie bought a 
paper and took it to the Slossons' Rest 
Room. She didn't read the war. She 
had never thought of herself as a 
victim. She merely looked over the 
want ads. 

Housemaids — cook — housemaid — 
nursemaid — school teacher — dining- 
room girl — ha, there you are, sJiirt- 
waist operator ! Can't afford to be 
finicky, Margery. How about that ? 

"Are you experienced ?" the fore- 
man asked. 


"Well, we don't want no green 
hands, let me tell you. There's mil- 
lions of 'em here in Toronto. You 
wasn't in a factory before, was you ?" 

"No, office work," she said. 

"Well, you won't get that, nor 
factory work neither. It's my belief 
that we'll have a power o' trouble this 
winter. Hope to God it ain't as cold 
as last." 

He was kind. He wante'd to help. 
But he couldn't. Margie tried to say 
that over and over to keep the tears 
from dripping on the trim black suit. 

It began to rain. She tried the 
corset factory, the shoe factory, even 
the carpet works where you went at 
7.30 and started at two and a half a 
week. Nobody wanted a green hand. 
Margie went home, bought half a 
pound of chocolates out of sheer lone- 
someness and spent the evening look- 
ing out at the drizzle and crying for 
Beryl and — 

"No !" said Margie fiercely, "I'm 
not crjang for him. I hate him 1 I 
hate him !" 

Late that night there was a knock 
on the door. 

"A gentleman to see you downstairs." 

"Tell him I'm sick," said Margery. 

All the next day the little shoes 
tramped Toronto. Margie was wary 
of spending an unnecessary nickel by 
this time. One office had advertised 
for a stenographer but when she got 
there she was told she was the fifteenth 
although it was only ten o'clock. Be- 
sides, she hadn't her shorthand, you 
know, even though she was desperate 
enough by this time to chance bluffing it. 

A little later in the day she found 
herself on the well-remembered road 
to Fulton Mackenzie's. Maybe Miss 
Wallace would know of something. 
In the old far-away, gum-chewing 
days, Margie had rather despised Miss 
W. for a sharp-featured, sharp-witted 
old maid whoM got to the top of the 
office but couldn't get a man. When 
she reached the door she found a lump 
in her throat. Miss Wallace looked 
so good, and the typewriters all click- 
ing sounded homey. If they'd only 


take her on again at five or even four- 
fifty, she'd try to live on it. 

"No, I can't," said Miss Wallace. 
Her eyes were very kind behind her But then, so were the eyes 
of the shirtwaist foreman and the girl 
at the corset factory. They all wanted 
to help. But they were being crushed 

"This war, you know," Miss Wallace 
went on, "we're letting three more 
girls go next week." 

Letting them go ! Margie's ears 
took in the irony of it. As though 
they wanted to leave ! She wondered 
as she looked at the sleek heads, which 
ones of the girls would don their un- 
paid-for hats for the last time next 

"Haven't you any home, Miss 
Fiske ?" 

"No, Miss Wallace — that is, father's 
out on the farm but he married again 
and there's five children anyhow with- 
out me." 

The one-time tyrant nodded sym- 
pathetically. She knew. 

She took Margie's address. Would 
let her know if she heard of anything. 
But she was afraid — 

That night Margie made her decis- 
ion. Back door or no back door, she'd 
go into service. 

She tried the first place, without the 
faintest suspicion 'that she wouldn't 
be taken. 

"Can you cook ?" 

"No'm — that is— well, I haven't 
cooked much lately." 

The lady's face softened. Most 
people's faces did soften when they 
looked at Margie. She was so very 
pretty and of late there was such a 
pathetic little droop to her kissable 

"Have you ever been in service, 
dear ?" 

"No'm," said Margie again, "I was 
in the office at Fulton Mackenzie's. 
But I can't do shorthand, just type, 
and I haven't been able to get another 

The lady had a thought-wave from 
somewhere to the effect that she ought 
to ask this pretty child right in and 
give her a cup of tea, but she was late 
for the Red Cross meeting anyhow^ 
and if the 48th didn't get the house- 
wives that she was to make, who'd 
sew on the buttons when the Kaiser 
shot them off ? 

So Margie went slowly down the 
steps again and tried four more places 
before dark. 

That night there was a note on the 
hatrack and later a second announce- 
ment of a gentleman in the parlor. 
But Margie said, "Now I lay me down 
to sleep" until she heard the front door 

It was a week later that she landed 
a job. She had thirty-three cents in 

her purse and her shoes were worn 
out and she hadn't answered Beryl's 
letter. But she could look into her 
owTi eyes in the tiny cheap little 
mirror and know that if her mother 
had lived, she could have gone to her 
with her head up. 

They had taken her at this last 
house even though she couldn't cook, 
They were to give her twelve a month, 
two nights a week and every second 
Sunday afternoon. There were no 

The girl who had engaged her was 
little older than Margie herself. And 
she wasn't pretty at all. But she 
was an M. A. and she taught Trigo- 
nometry for a living, which is nine- 
teen storeys above making pies. She 
was Miss Harrington and her sister 
was Miss Etta and her aunt was 
another Miss Harrington. Margiecould 
consider herself a lucky girl. She 
could read Mr. Harrington's theological 
books if she wanted to and sit in the sit- 
ting-room if there was no one else there. 

I'n the meantime she could go to 
her room — via the back stairs — and 
try on the last maid's cap. 

It was a tiny room, so short that 
the little bed and the littler radiator 
filled its length, and so narrow that 
it had just space for a washstand and 
Margie's steamer trunk. There was 
no bureau and no clothes cupboard 
though the schoolteacher Miss Harring- 
ton, who was never at home except 
during the holidays, had a whole 
inviolable chamber to herself and so 
of course had the other two ladies. 

The walls had been papered years 
ago when the Harrington taste ran 
to red chrysanthemums on a blue 
ground. Successive maids had punched 
holes in this doubtful decoration 
tacking up and taking down their 
successive picture postcards. The one 
ornament that remained, like Mt. 
Robson above the clouds, was a faded 
purple motto with silver lettering 
that hung above the hard little bed. 

"Sweet Rest In Heaven!" read 
Margie, but she was too tired to laugh, 
and the old grin had somehow got 
packed into Beryl's trunk. 

She went downstairs at last, fiercely 
conscious of the tiny badge of ser\-itude 
on her head, only to be confronted by 
the Trigonometry Miss Harrington. 

"We've been without a maid for 
the past week, Margery," she said, 
not unkindly, " and the dishes have — 
er — accumulated. You'd better do 
them before dinner." 

"Accumulated! I should say they 
had," said Margie under her breath, 
surveying a cluttered sink and littered 
table, the tea leaves spilled on the 
floor. The air was stale with frj'ing 
and every saucepan in the house had 
been used. Some of them were burnt 
beyond recall. 

"Would it be possible to make my- 
.self a cup of tea first, Miss Harring- 
ton?" the new maid asked meekly. 
She didn't explain that she had had 
no lunch and such a supposition never 

■occurred to her employer. 
"No, Margery," said Miss Harring- 
|ton, with as good an imitation of her 
iaunt's manner as she could achieve, 
"I don't believe in allowing the maids 
to eat between meals. English girls 
are proverbially wasteful of tea and 
this is War time. But then you aren't 
English are you?" 

Margery didn't answer. 
"Don't talk, don't talkl" she said to 
herself fiercely, "you're a maid, remem- 
ber, and maids shouldn't make tea nor 
answer back." 

By the time the dishes were done, 
Margie was too tired to be the deft- 
handed assistant that Miss Etta ex- 
pected in getting the dinner. Miss 
Etta was goodhearted, but she was 


just a schoolgirl. She'd never lived 
nor loved nor had a friend nor made 
an enemy. Consequently, she just 
didn't understand. She thought the 
new maid sullen because of her white 
face and her silence, and when she 
dropped the salad dressing into the 
cream, Miss Etta said something about 
untrained girls and twelve a month 
that brought a hot flush to Margie's 

She waited on table in a haze of 
weariness, bewilderment and anger. 
Of course she made mistakes and 
equally of course it was irritating just 
when Miss Harrington had her friend 
from Vassar who knew all the forks 
from here to Boston. What neither 
Margery nor her employers realized 
in full, was the War-time, out-of-work 
tension that had complicated the new 
maid's initiation into her new place. 

By the time dinner was over, every- 
thing was cold but Margery. She 


was blazing, physically and mentally, 
and she couldn't eat anything. She 
drank a cup of tepid tea, washed the 
dishes mechanically, and then, although 
it wasn't her evening out, she went up- 
stairs and put her hat on. She took 
a long look at herself in the cheap 
mirror and went out, taking the key 
of her flat. 

She didn't know how many hours 
she'd been sitting on the park bench 
when a man dropped into place beside 

"Lord, kid, but it's good to see you," 
he said with the old lightening of his 
eyes that sent all the blood in the 
girl's body pounding into her brain, 
"you've been side stepping me lately, 
haven't you? Honest now, where've 
you been and who's the new he?" 

For a moment Margie didn't speak. 
The man's arm slid along the back of 
the seat. 

Continued on page 69. 





WHEN the good Lord made the 
Celt, He made him to fight 
and to dream, to think with 
his heart, to spend from his 
soul, and to feel with every inch of 

But the good Lord knew that Ireland 
and the Hielands would never make 
Britannia rule the waves, since he is an 
unwonted Irishman who can make 
Pat rule himself unless he has some 
extra-special, revival-service, call-to- 
arms reason for it. 

So the good Lord added England 
and peopled it with a race that the Celt 
may admire, may analyze, may lead — 
but never conquer — a strange mad 
race no Celt will ever understand, 
because, the angrier they get, the cooler 
they grow; the hotter the fire, the 
steadier they are; the bluer the war- 
news, the greater the demand for after- 
noon tea. 

Canada isn't Celtic to be sure, but 
neither is she Anglo-Saxon, in the 
strict sense, what with her dash of 
HiberniaandtheHighlands, her piquant 
French admixture, and her strain of 
tang and slang and let-'er-go-bang from 
south of the Great Lakes. Therefore 
Canada, when inoculated with the 
war- feel, takes herself, her responsibili- 
ties and her newspapers quite differ- 
ently from the fashion set in Piccadilly 

and expounded in those North and 
South Poles of the English literary 
world. Punch and the Times. 

These are the back-home-again re- 
flections of a girl with grey-blue Done- 
gal eyes and hair black like a smuggler's 
night. This summer she went to 
England from her Ontario home to see 
pictures and hear grand opera and 
admire, as much as she could, a race 
aloof, patronizing, conventional- 

Instead, August second sizzled itself 
off the calendar before she had taken 
her return passage and she had a 
chance to see the English nation at its 
supreme best. 

"I can't give you any idea of the 
tremendous quietness of the war feel- 
ing," she told her friend who had 
never been east of New York. "It's 
utterly different to the Canadian way 
of taking things. There's a non- 
chalance about it that isn't stoicism 
nor theatricality, but just a serene 
sort of belief that Kitchener and 
Tommy Atkins are in charge, so why 
worry ? Perhaps it's rooted in the 
deepest characteristic the English have 
— and the most un-Celtic — their in- 
grained conservatism. Britannia al- 
ways has ruled the waves. Therefore, 
quite without fuss, Britannia always 

There isn't any ferocity towards the 
Germans. In those strange solemn 
prayer-meetings in St. Paul's — St. 
Paul's with guards — the men who come 
in overwhelming numbers, join in 
prayers even for the Kaiser. They 
consider him a world-menace to be 
sure, a thing to be put out, like a 
prairie fire. But they don't hate him, 
and they're willing to take six months 
or a year or even longer to make him 
see reason. 

There is absolute concentration of 
thought without any trace of that 
psychic tension, which would be un- 
English and undignified. A nation 
that will suffer fools gladly — even to 
the suffragette— that will allow every 
ism in the census report to mount £l 
Sunday soap box and harangue a 
Hyde Park crowd, that will per- 
mit a blue-coated bobby to listen 
grinningly while a wild-haired orator 
to-hells his King— such a nation isn't 
going to get excited over a twentieth 
century attempt to revive a Moyen 
Age Empire. It crushed Napoleon. 
It will also crush William. 

Canadienne had lived in Bedford 
Square since early spring, a wonderful, 
green-over-England spring that she 
hadn't seen except in the faint beckon- 
ing blue between tall houses when 
there was no mist. The German con- 


sulate was at the end of the block, but 
even her Irish-keen intuitions hadn't 
warned her of the crowd that would 
presently jam the street, humming 
"Deutschland, Deutschland, li b e r 

"Nobody thought even the week 
before that we'd be in it," she said 
turning the bronze Liberty necklet 
between her slim fingers, "the Kaiser 
had shaken hands with the King over 
King Edward's coffin; he was a British 
admiral; he had made visits and over- 
tures again and again. To be sure, 
Lord Roberts had warned us and so 
had Kipling, but the Englishman isn't 
imaginative, you know. He doesn't 
see Destiny till she comes round the 

That he did not, shows perhaps not 
so nfiuch the depth of Anglo-Saxon 
stupidity as the height of Anglo-Saxon 
self-confidence. London was full of 
eyes— paid German eyes. The press 
said so, Scotland Yard knew so. They 
could name-and-address them for you. 
But the man in the street who had 
Nelson and Wellington and Kitchener 
on the walls at home, simply read, 
believed or disbelieved according to his 
fancy for the print publishing the 
rumor, after which he promptly forgot 
all about it. 

"It was the Friday before the de- 
claration that I definitely suspected 
Fraiilein," said Canadienne. 

Fraiilein had come to the boarding 
house in May. She was twenty-three, 
she said. She had fair hair, blue trust- 
ful eyes and a passion for study. Her 
Hanover Varsity couldn't give her the 
satin finish she wanted, so she was pre- 
paring to plug her way into a seventh 
heaven of bluestockingdom by three 
months' study at London University, 
followed by an equal period at Oxford 
and another in Paris. The subject was 
to be Seventh Century Manuscripts. 

"I remember when she came first," 
said Canadienne, "Mrs. Dunham al- 
ways introduced newcomers, but she 
couldn't do much for Fraiilein be- 
cause she didn't speak English. I 
saw her sitting over on the other side 
of the drawing room and as I was look- 
ing at her, the big tears welled up into 
her eyes. Later I found that she could 
manage this little stage play whenever 
she wished. But at the time I thought 
she was homesick and I was all com- 
passion. My German was three years 
out of school, but I went over, sat on 
the arm of her chair, and tried to talk 
to her." 

She was so pleased and so grateful 
that Canadienne offered to take her 
sight-seeing. She had never been in 
London before, she said. 

On the streets she was dazed. The 
English were so strange, their language 
was so difficult — 

The third or fourth expedition had 


as its objective an art gallery. Cana- 
dicnne's stock of Vaterland-talk wasn't 
technical. She managed a paragraph 
or two and then stuck. 

"You do not mean that, you mean 
this !" cried Fraiilein excitedly, shak- 
ing her yellow head, and before Can- 
adienne had quite realized it, the con- 
versation was being conducted in 
Shakespearian English! 

The screw-looseness of the situation 
struck both girls at once. Fraiilein 
laughed uproariously and declared she 
had played so good a joke on her 
friend. Yes, she could speak English, 
had studied it since she was ten. 

A little later, her unexpected knowl- 
edge of the right turn to take in a part 
of the city she had just said she had 
never seen before, led her to the inevit- 
able admission ' that this wasn't her 
first visit to London. She had been 
only joking. 

When one of the other members of 
the household, who was an illuminator, 
showed a disposition to talk Seventh 
Century Manuscripts to the girl who 
was studying them, she became strange- 
ly reticent. It had certainly seemed 
a safe choice but the way of the trans- 
gressor is sometimes unexpectedly com- 

"Fraiilein seemed to know the most 
extraordinary number of men," Can- 
adienne said. "There was a Parsee sup- 
posed to be at the University, there 
was an Englishman whom none of us 
liked, and there were two German 
officers in the house, besides ever so 
many others who came once and no 
more. Still, it wasn't till she returned 
from a trip to Bisley and told us she 
had staid with the Cavendishes whom 
we knew were in America, that we be- 
gan to compare notes and come to the 
conclusion that she was something 
worse than a constitutional liar." 

On the Friday before war was de- 
clared, Fraiiieirt stopped for her mail 
before going out. A thin strip of 
paper fluttered to the floor from the 
first envelope cut, a draft for a thou- 
sand marks. Fraiilein didn't see Can- 
adienne in the drawing room doorway. 
She was too intent on her mail. 

The efTect of the letter was electrical. 
First she whistled, a long low note of 
surprise that flowered into a delighted 

"At last, at last ! Mein Gott, it is 
so !" 

Then she sped up the street to the 

Apparently other joke-playing Ger- 
mans had had billets-doux from their 
chiefs of staff, for the road had begun 
to fill up. 

There was the officer from Fraiilein's 
own house, singing "Deutschland" and 
exulting openly. There was his friend 
who always seemed busy yet had no 
office and no hours. There, too, were 

selections from that eighty-five per 
cent, of London's waiters who hailed 
from Prussia and its environs. 

"Until Tuesday you couldn't pass 
for the mob," said Canadienne, "jab- 
bering, cheering, calling for the consul, 
dashing up in taxis, and dashing off 
again. I don't believe you could get 
such a scene anywhere else in the 
world, a jam of the enemy right in the 
very heart of one's own city, and 
nothing done to prevent their making 
all the noise .they wanted ! There 
were two or three policemen around 
but they didn't attempt to do any- 
thing with the crowd that never left 
by night or by day, and thinned out 
only at mealtimes." 

Incompetence ? Not on your life J 
Just sheer, amazing British self-con- 
fidence. There were torn German 
extras all over the road, there was 
Berlinese bedlam from sidewalk to 
sidewalk, but there was also Sir Edward 
Grey in the Foreign Office and Scot- 
land Yard at its usual stand and if it 
amused Fraiilein to cheer herself 
hoarse, let her cheer. 

The boarding house didn't see its 
three Germans except at the end of 
breathless taxi-rushes. The officer was 
summoned to his regiment. Yet he 
was leaving all his belongings save his 

"Why do I take it ? Oh, I shall be 
back presently, in a week or two," he 
said airily, "and then, I shall need it." 

Paris in four weeks — London in six. 
That's what he meant. He was as 
sure that the Kaiser would be review- 
ing his troops in Hyde Park as he was 
certain that there was no need to pay 
his five weeks' arrears-board to a poor 
fool who would soon have to quarter 
him for nothing. 

The outrush of waiters changed 
many a high priced restaurant into a 
cafeteria. Friedrich from the board- 
ing house staff also sought the colors, 
nineteen and keen to fight his friend 
the Swiss at the next table. By the 
time the order was issued commanding 
all Germans to register, there was no 
one left but Hans who had told the 
consul that he was under age and flat- 
footed. Fraiilein had taxied out of 
sight with the Parsee, leaving her 
luggage to be called for. 

Then one morning, a plainclothes 
Sherlock from Scotland Yard visited 
the agitated landlady. 

"You've had two German officers 
here," he said genially. "They have 
been in London so long. They have 
done thus and so. They have now 
rejoined their regiments." 

Whereupon he added details that no 
one in the house had ever dreamed of, 
demanding in return the papers of the 
careless Prussians who were so sure of 

"You've also had a German woman," 


i^upyri^n* imernaiwnal l^ews Hervice, 


went on the plainclothes Law. "She 
was the daughter of a sugar-refiner in 
such and such a place. She says she is 
twenty-three but in reality she is 
twenty-six. This is her third visit to 
England. She was supposed to be 
studying Seventh Century Manuscripts 
at London University." 

The boarding house mistress was one 
series of "hows" and "whys" and 

The detective wouldn't say. Fraii- 
lein had been known about since she 
came to London. Of course. Why 
did one suppose Scotland Yard was 
there ? 

Why had they not apprehended her 
before ? 

Why should they ? 

Having satisfied himself that the 
eyes-that-had-come-to-see had really 
turned into the tongue-gone-home-to- 
report, the Law departed, leaving a 
shaken house who no longer wondered 
that 1,100 policemen could take care of 
6,000,000 Londoners, if they were all 
up to the startling specimen just seen 
from the Yard. 

After having rid itself of undesir- 
ables by the simple method of leaving 
them alone, the city settled down to 
war-time rule. 

People left the Bank of England when 
the increase of rates was announced. 
The crowd tore down the consul 's eagles, 

just the necessary once. After that, it 
betook itself to Buckingham Palace and 
for four unbridled nights in a line, it 
cheered the King, the Queen and the 
Prince of Wales, who appeared on the 
balcony after dinner. This proceeding, 
however, struck the English mind as 
undignified and, by Royal request, was 

Every public building in town was 
watched and guarded as were the rail- 
roads and the bridges; the entrances to 
the Post Office and the Telegraph Build- 
ings and the nearby subway stations 
were protected with expanded steel 
netting; boy scouts slipped through 
the streets with messages; soldiers 
marched all the time, to drill in the 
parks and the church-yards, to entrain 
at the stations. 

Scarcely a head turned. Nobody 
cheered. The call to arms had been 
given, had been obeyed. What else 
would one expect ? 

A likely-looking horse trotted down- 
street in his delivery shafts. A plain- 
clothesman held up his hand. The 
driver stopped, dismounted, unhitched. 
What if Madame's butter was late 
for lunch ? Her country needed 

Motor busses that used to bowl 
along through London, mysteriously 
disappeared from their accustomed 
haunts. Rumor has it that the French 

peasant thereafter learned all about 
the merits of Pear's Soap from their 
flaunting sides, and read for the first 
time of Peek Frean's Biscuits and 
Johnny Walker's Whiskey when they 
came to rest to discharge cargoes. 
Private motor trucks were also com- 
mandeered, turned into vehicles of 
wizardry, soldier-driven, and bound no 
one knew where. 

All the shops gave at least a window 
to khaki uniforms. The assistants 
within knitted for dear life at army 
socks, and when they went home at 
night, they worked away at the bis- 
cuit-colored flannel the English Red 
Cross has declared suitable for pyjamas. 
The pinks and blues and flowery hues 
of the Canadian offering will look 
frivolous in comparison, but perhaps 
the Mother Country will recognize our 
Celtic enthusiasm and our Gallic ex- 
uberance, and let it go. 

The censorship is unexampled and 
awe-inspiring. A girl in Canadienne's 
boarding house received a letter from 
her sister in Russia. All names of 
places were obliterated. 

Trains rushed north and south with 
blinds down. Russians from Arch- 
angel ? No, for there was the official 
denial. Yes, for the Russian who sold 
greens to the boarding-house had seen 
and talked with his own cousin. 

A neighborhood would go to bed 


watching the barracks' lights winking 
across the street. They would wake up 
to find the place deserted save for an 
impassive sentry or two. 

London shows no electric signs these 
days, no fringe of Stardust atop her 
streets. The vessel that steals out of 
Liverpool blankets her portholes. 

And yet, all this, all the wonderful, 
trained, tense activity of it, and never 
a bit of worry or hurry or the missing 
of a single cup of tea ! 

"A German in Montreal showed a 


friend of mine a pink slip two years 
ago," said Canadienne, putting on the 
black velvet bit of modishness that the 
West End called a hat. "That slip told 
him just where he was to report in the 
event of war with England. Germany 
has known a long time ahead and she 
has been absolutely confident of vic- 

But the blatant me-and-Gott con- 
fidence that provided Fraiilein with 
a thousand marks, that made the 
officer go home minus his receipted 

board-bill but plus his latchkey, that 
poured greygreen hordes across a 
neutral border," that burned cathedrals 
and bayonetted old men and little 
children — that isn't the sort of con- 
fidence that wins a long heartracking 
war. It isn't the English kind of con- 
fidence, that is steady enough to shoot 
without shouting, that is high enough 
to plunge an Empire into blood for a 
"scrap of paper," and lowly enough to 
kneel before the Judge of all the Earth 
in St. Paul's, confessing its sins. 

Doc Lambert's Second Choice 

By Samuel E. Kiser 

Illustrated by G. Tyson 

SOURED. Such was the condition of Doc. Lambert. 
He had tried life and found it guilty. Existence 
was a thing that he bore with ill-concealed im- 
patience. He felt that it had been unjustly thrust 
upon him. 

Some men would have 
considered themselves 
lucky if they had been 
in Doc's place, for he 
was neither a beggar 
nor a cripple. More- 
over, he had a job that 
wasn't half bad, and he 
was under no moral 
obligation to support a 

It was rumored that 
he had once had a 
mother, but the report 
may have been un- 
founded. Doc was a 
woman-hater. Long be- 
fore he became con- 
nected with Barton, 
Swift & Co., a woman 
had caused him to be- 
come a misanthrope, a 
cynic, a misogynist, a 
pessimist and almost an 
outcast. That was when 
he was a handsome 
young doctor of divini- 
ty. It was the old 
story. Doc never would 
speak of it, but we 
picked up the particu- 
lars here and there and 
got possession of enough 
of the facts to piece out a fairly complete account of 
the matter. 

The woman, it appeared, had made a mess of his 
career merely to satisfy her vanity. If she had ever 


cared for him she denied it when he had need of her sym- 
pathy and affection. She put all the blame on him and 
he, being a gentleman, made no effort to let the truth 
be known. He assumed entire responsibility for the 

scandal when it came 
out, the result being 
that he was expelled 
from his church and 
ostracised by society, 
while she, claiming to 
have repulsed his ad- 
vances and to have 
been innocent of any 
effort or desire to pro- 
mote his infatuation, 
was permitted to retain 
her husband and her 
respectability. Such is 
the price the privileged 
sex is sometimes compel- 
led to pay for its privi- 

Doc was essentially 
an extremist. When he 
quit the ministry he 
burned all his bridges 
behind him. In addition 
to casting away his faith 
in God he became an 
advocate of artistic self- 

Barton, Swift & Co. 
had engaged him as a 
writer of prospectuses, 
a line of endeavor in 
which he exhibited won- 
derful ability. He could 
write a prospectus that 

would cause people to beg for the privilege of mvesting 
their money; but be it remembered that .he never did 
this with any desire to swindle or mislead. It was merely 
his way of pursuing art for art's sake. 



When he became identified with our 
establishment he was about fifty-five 
\ears old, though no one would have 
guessed that he was more than forty. 
He possessed a splendid physique, his 
abundant hair was but slightly tinged 
with gray, and he would have been 
handsome still if it had not been for 
his constant frown. 

At first we found it a little difficult 
to adjust our emotions to Doc's habits 
of speech. He would 
speak of suicide as 
one ordinarily speaks 
of music or painting 
or poetry. In his 
estimation suicide 
was an art. 

"Oh," he would 
say, "there are people 
who bungle suicide 
just as there are those 
who bungle music 
and make daubs on 
canvases and write 
atrocious verses. 
Suicide is a matter 
that requires study, 
even as music and 
painting and poetry 
demand it. It is, in 
fact, the very highest 
of all the arts, for 
one must be truly 
inspired in order to 
achieve distinction in 
it. That cannot, in 
the nature of things, 
be accomplished 
through mere prac- 

We were given to 
understand that he 
lived on, not from 
choice, but because 
he was waiting for the 
inspiration that he 
considered necessary 
to credit himself with 
an artistic exit from 
the world. It was his 
custom to carry a 
pocketful of news- 
paper clippings which 
referred to people who 
had voluntarily given 
up the business of 
life, and often when 
he could spare the 
time he would spread 
these precious bits 
upon his desk and phi- 
losophize over them. 

"Here," he said one day when he had 
produced a fresh clipping, "is a story 
concerning a man who threw himself 
from the top of a twenty-story building. 
The method is effective but wholly 
inartistic. One cannot do that with- 
out making a muss. When I remove 
myself, as I hope to very soon, it will 
be in such a way as to cause no incon- 

venience to others. Hanging I con- 
sider vulgar, and shooting does not 
lend itself to the requirements of good 
taste. One cannot shoot oneself and 
remain presentable." 

When Doc Lambert identified him- 
self with the house of Barton, Swift & 
Co. he was assigned to a desk near the 
one at which Mrs. Stetson, our steno- 
grapher, worked. Mrs. Stetson was a 
widow who supported two little chil- 



dren and provided for her own wants 
out of a salary of $15 a week. That 
alone would have entitled her to 
recognition as a genuis; but she did 
more. She could not bring her chil- 
dren to the office, so she paid a woman 
to take care of them from seven o'clock 
every morning until six at night, Sun- 
days excepted. Perhaps she was 

thirty-five years old; maybe only 
thirty. She certainly had reason 
enough to look her age, whatever it 
was; but she was far from being the 
least hopeful person in the establish- 

Doc was her pet aversion. She 
abhorred him and he cordially recipro- 
cated. Neither made any conceal- 
ment of the contempt each had for the 

After Doc had ex- 
pressed his disap- 
proval of shooting as 
a means of self-des- 
truction Mrs. Stetson 

"The principal 
trouble with you, 
Doc, is that you're 
too lazy to take ex- 
ercise enough to keep 
your pores open. I 
remember hearing a 
physician say once 
that there was noth- 
ing like clogged pores 
to bring on despond- 
ency. Why don't you 
invest in a home 
training apparatus ? 
It might give you a 
new outlook." 

"Now you take 
throat-cutting," he 
went on, without 
looking up from his 
clipping or acknowl- 
edging that he had 
heard the widow's 
remarks; "that is 
clearly an indication 
of degeneracy and, 
furthermore, it is sure 
to be followed by 
disagreeable conse- 
quences, especially if 
it is done in a car- 
peted room. The 
man who cuts his 
throat shows an utter 
lack of the finer feel- 
ings.' Asphyxiation 
is much more genteel 
and, all things con- 
sidered, is , perhaps 
about as good a 
method as has ever 
been thought out." 
"What you need," 
said Mrs. Stetson, 
"is some one to take 
your mind off that 
kind of foolishness. If I were your 
wife I'd give you something beside 
suicide to think about." 

He studied her for a moment and 
seemed to be framing a sarcastic reply, 
but evidently he was unable to think 
of anything severe enough. He there- 
fore went on with his philosophical de- 
ductions concerning asphyxiation. 


"There's only one trouble about it," 
he said. "Unless a man can have a 
whole building to himself when he turns 
on the gas somebody is likely to break 
into his room before he is dead and 
spoil everything. As far as the gas is 
concerned, one needn't worry about 
that. If I decide to select gas as the 
medium in my case I shall leave 
enough money to pay for whatever the 
meter may register. I consider this 
no more than right. There are cer- 
tain poisons that have good points, but 
poison never made a strong appeal to 
me. There is something about the 
word that I don't like. One somehow 
gets the impression that a man who 
poisons himself must be a plebeian. 
Drowning is in some respects a fairly 
good method, too." 

"Will you please talk about some- 
thing else — if you must talk ?" Mrs. 
Stetson pleaded. "You make one feel 
creepy. I should think you would be 
afraid something terrible would happen 
to you." 

"If I were going to drown myself," 
he continued, folding up his clipping 
and placing it carefully with the others 
that he carried, "I should not do it in 
a well. That would make trouble for 
others. I myself should not thank 
any one for drowning himself in a well 
of mine. In addition to the nuisance 
of having to get the body out it would 
have a tendency to spoil my taste for 
the water, at least for a few days. 
I " 

"Could you be induced to postpone 
your remarks until I get these letters 
copied ?" Mrs. Stetson asked. "Or 
if it would be more agreeable for you 
to go out and drown yourself at once, 
please do that." 

"I should not throw myself into a 
reservoir or a small lake either," he 
said, ignoring the lady's interruption. 
"I once saw a body that had been 
taken from the water after having 
floated for several days and it was not 
an attractive object. I should not 
want my body to be found in such a 
condition. If I ever drown myself it 
will be in mid-ocean, so that there can 
be no possibility that it ever will be 
recovered. On the whole, however, I 
think drowning is hardly to be recom- 
mended. There are too many risks 
attached to it. One never can be sure 
that some fool will not be waiting 
around somewhere, ready to jump in 
and pull one out by one's hair. To a 
man with any self respect that would 
be humiliating.'" 

Having placed his clippings in his 
pocket, he turned to his desk to resume 
his work. 

"Thanks," said Mrs. Stetson, with a 
little shiver. "I was afraid you'd 
never get through this time. What 
you need is a wife — a good, strong- 
minded wife — to take some of that 


f9olishness out of you. The idea of a 
man like you talking about committing 
suicide ! You ought to be ashamed 
of yourself. You don't know how 
fortunate you are. If you were a 
cripple or a hopeless invalid one might 
forgive you for pretending to be tired 
of living. A man who thinks of killing 
himself is a coward, anyhow. He's a 
mental weakling. There's a screw 
loose .somewhere in his make-up. 
There's a chance for you to figure it out 
for yourself if you want to know what 
I think of you." 

Without indicating in any way that 
he had heard what the lady had said 
Doc bit off the end of a cigar and went 
on correcting the copy of a new pro- 
spectus which was to be one of the 
finest products of his genius. 

When he came into the office the 
next day he took a clipping from his 
pocket and after studying it for a 
moment said: 

"Here's an interesting case. A man 
threw himself into a blast furnace and 
his body was completely consumed. 
That appeals to me very strongly. It 
did away with the necessity of a 
funeral. I consider a funeral a nuis- 
ance. It wouldn't be so bad if they 
would bury one without getting some 
woman to screech or letting some male 
quartette howl over one. I shall leave 
specific instructions that nothing of 
that kind is to be done when they hold 
my funeral; but how am I to know 
that they will respect my wishes ?" 

"I don't think you need worry," 
Mrs. Stetson remarked. "No one will 
ever feel like bursting into song over 
you, either alive or dead." 

"It would be just like some ofificious 
preacher," Doc continued, "to want 
to send me ofT to the accompaniment 
of 'Lead Kindly Light' or something 
of that kind, in spite of any orders I 
might leave. Still, one has to assume 
that risk. There's another thing I 
want to have thoroughly understood. 
No women are to stand around my 
grave when I'm lowered into it. If 
the boys from the office want to pay 
their respects by coming out I shall 
consider it decent of them, but no 
women. They sicken me. I have a 
creepy feeling whenever one of them 
gets against me in a crowd." 

"Think of the feelings of the poor 
woman who happens to be crowded 
against you," said the widow. "Smile, 
Doctor. Let's see how you look with 
a twinkle in your eyes." 

A few mornings later Doc came into 
the office, carrying a long envelope, 
which he carefully placed upon his 
desk, saying: 

"Well, there it is." 

"What is it?" asked Danny Richard- 
son, the resident manager, "your will?" 

"No. I've bought myself a grave. 
That's the deed." 

"You have decided, then, that you 
will not destroy yourself in any way 
that will obviate the necessity of a 
funeral ?" 

"Yes, I've got that point all settled 
in my mind. I went out to Mount 
Hope Sunday and looked over their 
supply of graves to find out whether I 
wanted to be buried or not. They had 
one that suited me, so I bought it." 

"What kind of a grave did you 
select ?" asked Danny. "Is it under 
a weeping willow, or did you pick out a 
spot that appealed to you on account 
of the view ?" 

"I found a place where there was 
one grave left between those of two 
men who had died bachelors. I wanted 
to make sure that no woman could 
ever be buried beside me, and this 
grave answered my purpose. My 
neighbors never having had families, 
there will be no danger that their 
graves will ever be used by anybody 
but themselves, so it's all fixed. The 
deed, with full directions concerning 
the location of my grave, will be found 
beside me when the end comes, so 
there will be no occasion for any trouble 
or confusion in that respect." 

The possession of a grave seemed to 
be a great comfort to Doc. He would 
frequently take the deed out of his 
pocket and read it over with unmis- 
takable satisfaction. It almost made 
him cheerful, and he fell into the habit 
of going out on Sundays to look at his 
grave and assure himself that it was 
where it belonged. His first remark 
when he came into the office on Mon- 
day mornings was: 

"Well; I went out to see my grave 

He spoke of it as if it had been a 
garden or a building lot, and the boys 
found it pleasant to humor him by let- 
ting him understand that they were 
interested in the spot which he had 
selected as his last resting place. 

"I suppose," Danny Richardson said, 
one morning after Doc had made his 
usual announcement, "you intend to 
beautify it with flowers, don't you ?" 

"Flowers !" Doc sneered, "no ! I'll 
leave the flowers for the women. They 
need all of them they can get to keep 
themselves from being insufferable." 

Mrs. Stetson had a little bunch of 
pansies fastened on her breast. She 
caressed them and then, smiling at 
Lambert, said: 

"They do help to keep one from 
being repulsive. I shall plant some 
on your grave after you have begun 
to use it." 

He lighted a cigar and began to 
smoke furiously, pretending that he 
had not noticed her remark. 

"What about a grave stone?" Danny 
Richardson asked. "Do you intend 
to provide that also, or will you leave 
Continued on page 42. 

The Mystery of the 
Jade Earring 

By Henry Kitchell Webster 

Author of "The BuUerfly." "The 
Whispering Man," etc. 

Illustrated by Percy Edward Anderson 


Jeffrey, a successful artist, undertakes to paint for the "queer, rich, invisible 
Miss Meredith," a portrait of her dead niece taken from a photograph. For st)me 
strange reason, the commission gets on his nerves, and he goes abroad suddenly, 
without ever having seen Miss Meredith, but only her confidential agent and 
physician, Dr. Crow. 

The story opens at the point where he returns to find his friend (who tel's the 
tale) at home with Madeline and Gwendolyn, discussing a mysterious murder. 
Oddly enough, the murdered girl^a singularly beautiful woman with masses of fair 
hair — was found frozen in solid ice, clad in a ball-gown which had been put on her 
after she was shot through the heart. 

Next morning Jeffrey telephones for his friend, and when he hastens anxiously 
to the studio, says the portrait has been stolen. By a bit of amateur detect ive 
work, they find the man who stole the frame and he confesses, but swears 
that he never touched the painting. 


CHAPTER II— Continued. 

For a full minute, I think it must 
have been, Jeffrey sat there on the 
trunk staring at him without a word. 
For a moment there was in his eyes a 
look almost of panic. Then he rose 
and held out his hand to Shean. 

"Thank you for telling me the truth 
about it," he said. "Oh, yes, I know 
it's true. I'm sorry for you. If you'll 
come up to my place and see me some 
day — oh, any time — we'll talk things 
over and see what we can do. Oh, 
and if you know where the frame is, 
find out what I can buy it back for, 
will you ? No, I don't want any 
thanks. Good-by !" 

In two minutes we were back in the 
taxi. I wanted to ask him what had 
given him the clue for what seemed 
to me an uncannily lucky guess, but 
his manner made it plain he didn't want 
to talk, so I left his moody reverie 
undisturbed all the way back to the 
studio. He sprang out when we arriv- 
ed there with unconcealed haste, and 
fretted over the slowness of the eleva- 
tor as we were going up. 

His Jap heard us coming as we left 
the elevator and was holding the door 
open for us. 

"Togo," said Jeffrey, "did you take 
that portrait I left when I went away, 
out of the frame ?" 

Togo nodded and smiled. "Yes, I 
took out. Put there." He nodded to- 
ward a big unframed stretcher on the 

outside of the stack that was leaning 
against the wall. "That it," he con- 

Jeffrey burst into a laugh. "Well, 
why the devil didn't you say so," he 
demanded, "when I was making all 
that fuss this morning ?" 

Togo shook his head and lifted his 
eyebrows. "Frame gone," he said. 
"I not know." 

Jeffrey strode across the room and 
swung the big stretcher around. Then 
he made a queer noise in his throat. 
There was no portrait there. It was 
just a big, gray, blank canvas, without 
a brushful of paint on it. We looked 
through the others in the stack. We 
looked at every canvas in the studio. 
But the portrait of the girl in the white 
satin gown wasn't there. 



Jeffrey's part of the search was a 
mere pretense. Togo and I looked 
everywhere — down in the studio and 
up in the loft. But, for the greater 
part of the time, Jeffrey sat in his 
chair staring dully out of the window 
and getting whiter and whiter every 
minute. When I had satisfied myself 
that we had really exhausted the possi- 
bilities and that the portrait of the girl 
in the white satin gown was really 
nowhere in the studio, I dismissed Togo 
with a nod, went up behind Jeffrey, and 
laid my hand on his shoulders. 

I didn't intend to take him by sur- 
prise. He'd have heard me coming, 
had he not been sunk so far in the very 
deepest abstraction. As it was, he 
gave a little shudder under my touch 
and fainted dead away. I laid him on 
the floor and loosened his collar. But 
finally I had to get some cold water and 
dash it in his face in order to bring him 
to. Then I gathered him up, and with 
a little help from himself got him safe- 
ly ensconced in his big, deep Morris 

"I'm sorry I made such a fool of 
myself," he said limply. 

I don't know why people apologize 
for fainting, but they always do. 

"Forget about it," said I. "You 
were in worse shape than I realized 
when you went away three months ago. 
If I'd known how bad you were, I 
think I'd have gone with you. And 
you're not quite right yet. Madeline 
and I will figure out, in a little while, 
what's best for you to do. In the 
meantime, you stop worrying. As I 
said, forget it." 

Jeffrey laughed. It wasn't a pleas- 
ant laugh to hear. 

"Forget it," he echoed. "Stop 

"Or else," said I, struck with a new 
idea, "tell me all about it. I imagine 
that will be better, after all." 

"It's nothing but a nightmare," said 
Jeffrey. "That's all it can possibly 



"Exactly," I said. "And the only 
way to wake yourself out of a night- 
mare is to bring it out in the daylight. 
Reduce it to cold facts. Tell it, no 
matter how it sounds. I've none of 
your imagination, not any of those 
wonderful intuitions of yours, but I do 
lay claim to a certain amount of com- 
mon sense, and perhaps I may be able 
to help you." 

"Will you promise," Jeffrey asked, 
"to believe what I tell you ? Oh, I 
don't mean to ask you not to think me 
a deliberate liar," he went on, inter- 
preting my look of surprise at his re- 
qliest. "I mean, will you promise to 
regard me as a sane person recounting 
observed facts ? Promise when I have 
got through not to come over and pat 
me on the back and tell me what I need 
is hypophosphites and strychnine. I'm 
not a wabbly neurasthenic suffering 
from hallucinations. If my story 
sounds like a bunch of phonograph 
records from bedlam, you're to promise 
to believe it's the story's fault, not 

If I felt an uncanny sort of excite- 
ment over his prologue, I did my best 
not to show it. I loaded and lighted 
my pipe pretty deliberately before I 
answered, and if the hand that held 
the match shook a little, I hoped he 
wouldn't notice it. 

"All right," said I. "Fire away." 

"Do you remernber," he began, 
"that two years ago I spent the winter 
in Paris ?" 

"Do I remember !" I exclaimed. 
"Didn't Madeline and I visit you a 
whole week in your apartment there?" 

"Did either you or Madeline notice 
anything queer about me. then, or did 
anything happen that you wondered 
about ?" 

I hesitated a little over my answer. 
I might as well have spoken out, for 
he noticed the little change in my man- 
ner instantly. 

"I see you did." 

"Why, really it was nothing," said 
I. "You may remember the incident 
yourself. We all came into the studio 
together one afternoon, after a little 
sightseeing expedition, and we saw 
lying in the middle of the floor — a 
woman's handkerchief. Both Made- 
line and I naturally supposed it was 
hers. I went over toward it to pick 
it up, but you saw it just then, picked 
it up yourself, glanced at it, and 
slipped it in your pocket. It struck us 
both as a little queer. 

"Not what you did, but the way you 
did it. As if, somehow, you didn't 
want to be questioned. Evidently you 
knew the handkerchief wasn't Made- 
line's, and you seemed a little embar- 
rassed at finding it there. We had all 
been off together, so that whoever 
dropped it must have been there in the 
studio while we were out." 


I stopped there rather awkardly, but 
Jeffrey, with a little movement of im- 
patience, told me to go on. 

"What did you think about it ?" 
he asked. "How did you explain it ? 
Oh, if I'm going to be frank, you must 

"Why, we both remembered," said 
I, feeling for my words a little lamely, 
"that you hadn't originally planned to 
go with us that afternoon. So it 
seemed to us that the owner of the 
handkerchief must have come in — 
well, must have been enough at 
home there to get in when there was no 
one there to receive her, and waited 
for you a while and then gone away." 

"And you made, I suppose, the con- 
ventional explanation," said Jeffrey. 
"Certainly you couldn't have been ex- 
pected to make any other; especially 
when I put the handkerchief in my 
pocket that way and seemed not to 
want to talk about it. But it wasn't 
the right explanation. Drew." 

"I'm not a Puritan," said I, "but, 
somehow, I'm glad to hear that. We 
both felt a little uncomfortable about 
it, though we've never discussed it 
since. Your manner seemed a little 
different after it, too. I suppose that 
was because you guessed what we must 
be thinking." 

"No," said Jeffrey, "I never thought 
of it that way until this morning. But 
I'll have to go back and begin at the 

"You know I thought I was awfully 
lucky to get that studio in the first 
place. There isn't a better one in 
Paris. The man who had it — he's 
a prosperous well-known painter — 
had a long lease on it and a lot of 
work to do, and it never occurred 
to me, when I asked him if he knew 
where I could get a studio, that there 
was any possibility of his giving up 

"But he offered it to me, in a hesi- 
tating sort of way, saying that he 
meant to find another and thought he 
could get one the other side of the 
impasse. I asked him why in the 
world he was moving out of that one 
to go into one not so good across the 
street, and all he said at first was that 
he'd taken a dislike to it. It had got 
on his nerves and he couldn't paint 
there. I wanted to know what had 
got on his nerves and he wouldn't tell 

" 'I wouldn't offer it to any one 
else,' he said at last, 'but you're such 
a sensible chap that maybe you won't 

" 'Mind what ?' I asked him again, 
but still he wouldn't tell me. 

" 'It's ten to one, a hundred to one, 
there won't be anything.' 

"That was all he would say. He 
was a cranky, temperamental sort of a 
cuss, so I didn't think any more about 

it, blessed my good luck, and moved 
in. I didn't find anything for about 
a week." 

"And then ?" I asked. I tried to 
say the words casually, but it wasn't 

"Get the geography of the place well 
in your mind first," he said. "You 
remember there was a little hall with 
a kitchenette to the right of it. And 
then the salon and two bedrooms 
straight along in a row, with a corridor 
on the inside. When you get to the 
end of the corridor, you turn to the 
left and come out in the loft of the 
studio. The studio floor is a half story 
down, by a flight of steps. There is 
a door at the other end of the studio 
that is reached by a flight of iron 
steps outside, so that models and- such 
can come straight to the studio through 
the court without coming into the 

"Yes," said I, "I've got it straight. 
I remembered it pretty well, anyway. 
Go, on." 

"And you understand, don't you," 
he continued, "that there's another 
apartment and studio on the other side 
of the court exactly corresponding to 
mine, only left-handed. The end walls 
of the studios come together and the 
same flight of iron stairs serves both 
studio doors. That's clear, isn't it ?" 
I nodded. "Go on," said I. "What 
did you find at the end of a week ?" 

Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders. 
"Nothing," he said — "nothing that I 
can tell about even to you, without 
feeling rather an ass. Why, I came 
in just about four o'clock one after- 
noon in November. It was dark, of 
course. Let myself in by the apart- 
ment-door — not the studio-door, you 
understand. Let myself in with my 
latch-key and lit the gas in the hall. 
The minute I did it I knew that some 
one else had just been there. I knew 
that whoever it was, was in the next 
room — the salon. 

"Mind you, I didn't see anything 
nor hear anything. I just knew it. 
Now there's nothing uncanny about 
that. I've got some sort of extra 
sense that often tells me those things, 
when the people in question are just 
ordinary, ever>--day, li\-ing people. I 
call it an extra sense. Perhaps it's 
actually only an abnormal sense of 
smell, but too subtle to recognize as 

"As you know, I didn't keep any 
servant that winter. I had an old 
femme de menage who came ever}.- 
morning to clean up and then went 
away. She hadn't any business there 
in the afternoon, but still she could 
have got in. She had a key and she 
might perfectly well have come back 
when she thought I'd be out — oh, to 
steal a few candles or a basket of coal 
or something. They all_do that. ^ So 



it didn't startle me at all or give me 
any queer sensations to know that 
there was some one in the place. 

"I took off my hat and overcoat 
after I'd lighted the gas, and went into 
the salon. Well, there was no one 
there. But the same sense told me 
that whoever it was had gone on into 
the adjoining room. That seemed 
queer, because I ought to have heard 
her moving about. But I struck 
another match and went on. There 
was no one there either, but I followed 
what I can only call the scent — which 
was just as definite, real a thing, as 
what a hound follows the trail by — 
out into the corridor and down to the 
turning and into the loft and down 
across the studio to the outside studio 
door. And I was just as sure, when 
I got to that door, that some one had 
gone out of it less than half a minute 
before as I was when I came in that 
there was some one there." 

"You heard nothing all the while ?" 
I asked. 

"Not a sound," he said, "except the 
noise I was making myself, and that 
wasn't much." 

"And you saw nothing ?" 

"No," said Jeffrey. 

Well, I suppose you will think he 
was right about it— that it did sound 
silly; that it was a confession even a 
nervous, fidgety woman would have 
been almost ashamed to make; and 
you may think that if I had been the 
common-sense, level-headed friend I 
professed to be, I should have told him 
that his experiences were nothing more 
than an attack of the creeps, and that 
he was a fool to think twice about it. 
I'd have done that if I could. But the 
fact was, I couldn't. 

To begin with, I knew that what 
Jeffrey said about his possession of an 
extra sense was the sober, literal truth. 
I would trust that sense of his as far 
as I would trust one of the regular five 
senses in a normal man. When he 
said he knew, in that inexplicable way, 
that some one was in the salon when he 
opened the hall door, it meant as much 
to me as if another had said, "I saw 
some one standing there." Granting 
that, and I had to grant it, the thing 
became a very curious mystery. 

"You didn't miss anything ?" I 
asked. "Nothing had been taken ?" 

Jeffrey shook his head . "The trouble 
is," he went on, "with the possession 
of a sense like that, you never can 
really believe in it yourself. You may 
know you have it, you may be utterly 
unable to disbelieve you have it, but 
your common sense won't accept an 
unsupported report of it. It insists 
on telling you that you are a fool with 
a head full of fancies, and it not only 
prevents you from telling other people 
about it — it won't let you take ordi- 



nary, common-sense means for solving 
the mystery. 

"I thought about the thing for a 
week. It didn't happen again in that 
time and I had about persuaded myself 
there was nothing to it but imagina- 
tion. Then one evening when I was 
coming home from the restaurant 
where I'd dined, I saw a light in my 

"My first thought was to go straight 
up to the studio door by the iron stair. 
Then I recollected that the sound of 
any one coming up that stair was per- 
fectly audible in the studio from the 
moment you set foot on the lowest 
step. It was a spiral stair and you 
couldn't go up very fast. Whoever 

was in the studio would have ample 
warning I was coming and plenty of 
time to get out through the apartment. 

"So I went up the other stairs, as 
softly as I could, had my key ready, 
flung the door open, and rushed down 
the corridor to the loft. As I turned 
the corner, I heard the studio door 
shut. The studio was dark when I got 
into it, but one of the candles had just 
been put out. I could smell it. I 
scrambled up on the back of a big 
Breton settle from which I could see 
out of the studio-light into the court. 

"I am perfectly sure that I was up 
there looking out of the window before 
any one who had just shut my studio 
door could have had time to get down 



the iron stairs and across the court. 
There wasn't any other way out. The 
court wasn't dark, for the two hall- 
ways were well lighted, and there was 
another bright light in the arched 
entrance to the court from the street. 
Well, I looked and looked, but that 
court was deserted." 



"I didn't wait for anything more. 
I went straight out and cfuestioned 
the concierge. Asked him if any one 
had come in inquiring for me, or if 
any one had just gone out. He said 
no to both questions. 

" 'Well,' I said, 'some one has been 
in my studio. There was a light burn- 
ing when I came in.' The imbecile 
asked me if I hadn't left the light there 
myself. I said no, that I had gone 
away at noon, and besides, the light 
was out when I got to the studio. 
'Then,' said he, 'possibly what mon- 
sieur saw was a reflection.' 

"I told him a reflection didn't leave 
a smell of hot tallow behind it. At 
that he shrugged his shoulders and 
suggested I report my losses to the 

" 'I don't know that I've lost any- 
thing,' .said I, and at that he gave me 
up for a maniac. 

"I went back to the studio and 
found that I hadn't lost anything — 
nothing had even been disturbed. But 
I felt perfectly sure — I can't tell you 
how — that somebody had been sitting 
in my big chair. Probably for a good 
while. It was clear I'd have to solve 
the mystery for myself. If I made 
any complaint, or tried to provoke an 
official investigation, I'd probably bring 
up in the mad-house." 

"Look here, Jeffrey 1" I cried. 
"What about the other apartment — 
the one that corresponded to yours on 
the other side of the court ? Didn't 
you say that the end" walls of the two 
studios came together ? Couldn't she 
have gone ?" 

"Couldn't who ?" said Jeffrey. 

"She — -the woman that was in your 
studio ? The ghost girl — whatever she 
was ?" 

"That's queer," said Jeffrey. "I 
haven't told you that I thought she was 
a woman — a young woman too. But 
I always thought of her that way, even 
then. I even called her the ghost girl 

"There's nothing queer about it," 
said I. "The handkerchief made me 
think of a young woman." 

Jeffrey gave a short laugh. "That 
shows what a fool I am," said he. "I 
was getting ready to build another 
little ghost-story out of that. Go on ! 
What were you going to ask ?" 

"You said the same iron stairs 
served both studio doors. Well, then, 

why couldn't she have slipped out of 
your door and into the other one ? 
There'd be time enough for that." 

"Because I thought of that," said 
Jeffrey, "almost at once. And I sup- 
pose that's the explanation that you'll 
stick to when I've told you everything, 
although I don't I^elieve it one single 
minute myself. The people who oc- 
cupied that apartment were an English 
family named Williamson. I didn't 
know so very much about him, so far 
as his life was concerned, but we were 
very pleasant acquaintances. I met 
him as soon as I took the studio. 
They were the most commonplace 
people in the world. 

"Williamson himself was a retired 
English doctor — a chap in his fifties. 
Hard-headed, straightforward, thor- 
oughly good sort. He had a wife and 
daughter there with him. They were 
living in Paris so she could study art. 
She had about as much chance of doing 
anything at it as a dog has to learn to 
sing. She was a pleasant, hard-headed 
young little old maid of about twenty. 
She worked very industriously in her 
studio, and I developed my talent for 
fiction to the last notch, thinking up 
things to say about her work when 
she showed it to me. 

"Well, those three Williamsons were 
simply out of the question. That 
night that I saw the light in my studio, 
there was a light in theirs— they gen- 
erally spent their evenings there. I 
went straight over, told them some 
one had been rummaging around my 
diggings, and asked if they had heard 
anything through the wall. They 
were interested, of course, and Mrs. 
Williamson got quite excited over the 
idea of robbers and wanted to know 
if I had lost anything. They had been 
in their studio all the evening. Now 
you can say it might have been one of 
them, and I can't prove that it wasn't; 
but all the same the notion is incon- 

"I agree with you," said I. "Go 
on. What happened next ?" 

"There wasn't anything very differ- 
ent up to the time you and Madeline 
came to visit me," said Jeffrey. "Two 
or three other experiences more or less 
like the ones I have told you about. 
One night when I was in bed — I don't 
know whether I was asleep or not- — I 
wasn't sleeping well then- — I waked 
up, if I had been asleep, with the idea 
that I had seen some one go by my 
bedroom door. I wasted two or three 
minutes, I'll admit, lying still in a 
sweating terror, trying to convince 
myself it had been a dream. And then 
I heard the studio door shut. 

"I got up and lighted all the lights 
and looked around, but I didn't find 
anything. The whole thing may have 
been a dream. But the handkerchief 
we found on the floor wasn't a dream, 

and I'm sure it had been dropped while 
we were out. That was the first tan- 
gible clue I got — the first thing that 
I couldn't reason away when I was in 
good form, on the theory of imagina- 

"I went up one night to call on the 
man who'd rented me the studio, in 
the hope of finding out what his ex- 
periences had been. But he was mum 
as an oyster and tried to pump me. 
Williamson spoke of it again once and 
asked me if I'd seen or heard anything 
more, and I told him no. I didn't 
feel like showing him what an ass I 
was and I knew I couldn't start talk- 
ing about it without giving away the 
whole thing." 

"It's awfully queer, of course," I 
said dubiously, "but — " 

"I haven't begun the story yet," 
said Jeffrey — "the real story. But 
here's where it begins. Now listen, 
and if you want to call in an alienist 
when I get through, why go ahead. 
But let me tell the thing connectedly 

"A couple of weeks after you and 
Madeline left Paris, I got a note from 
the Muirheads, suggesting that I pack 
up my color-box and come down to 
Etaples for a few days. They were 
having a lovely time painting winter 
skies and things, and they wanted to 
let me in on it, I was glad of an ex- 
cuse to get away, so I went. I did 
those sketches I showed you — the only 
real work I've got to show fori the 
whole rotten winter — and went back 
to Paris feeling that I'd got rid of the 

"I reached the studio about two in 
the afternoon — a bright, clear day. I 
was feeling as well — as little liable to 
any imaginative delusions as it is pos- 
sible to imagine any one. I went into 
my apartment, got rid of my traps, 
and went down into the studio. 

"This is what I saw: One of my 
easels had been drawn out into the 
middle of the room. There was a 
canvas on it that had been painted; 
there was a low stool in front of it 
where the painter had sat. To the 
left of it was one of my chairs, just 
an ordinary, straight-backed chair, 
with a mirror of mine standing on it 
— an old mirror in a carved, gilt frame, 
with a sort of ornamental top on it. 
All around the stool on the floor were 
brushes and tubes of my colors. There 
was a palette on the chair, leaning up 
against the mirror." 

"But the canvas ?" I asked, for he 
had hesitated there for a moment. 
"WTiat was on the canvas ?" 

Jeffrey got up and drew a long 
breath. His teeth were clenched as if 
they wanted to chatter and he talked 
through them in a sort of dogged, 
matter-of-fact way. 

Continued on page 45. 


When Paris Went to War 




By Mae Harris Anson 

ALL the world knows how the 
news of the order for mobili- 
zation came to Paris. It was 
an entirely different experience 
to have received it in a village of a 
few thousand inhabitants, which was 
as much a rural backwater as if it were 
one hundred and fifty miles from Paris, 
instead of only fifteen. For a month 
I had been living at Enghien-les-Bains, 
and though the Paris papers, read 
there, had . the same news as Paris, 
somehow the reality of possible war 
never filtered through, never disturbed 
the drowsy calm of the village. 

On Monday, July twenty-seventh, 
interest in Enghien was centered on 
the amazing turns in the trial of Mad- 
ame Caillaux for the murder of M. 
Gaston Calmette. Progress of the 
war between Austria and Servia held 
second place. On Tuesday, however, 
they were given equal attention. 
Wednesday, everything connected with 
Madame Caillaux was practically for- 
gotten, for then even little Enghien un- 
derstood that the "eventual war" might 
be suddenly at hand. Thursday and 
Friday, there were occasional remarks 
prefaced with the words, "in case of 
war." Saturday morning, even this 
phlegmatic, drowsy little village began 
to show signs of tension — but no ex- 
citement, no boasting, no gasconade. 
Saturday afternoon, at five o'clock, 
I suddenly became aware of unusual 
knots of men and women gathered 
along the street below my window. 
There were no signs of excitement, an 
almost total lack of the typical French 
gestures — but something about them 
struck me with fear. Flying down 
stairs, one look at Madame was enough . 
Calm she was, but with a stricken look 
in her eyes. 

"Mobilization!" was all she said. 
> "And that means — war?" I gasped. 
"No one knows yet," she said, "but 

Not a word more, not a hint of 
regret, of fear, of seeming thought 
as to what it might mean to her per- 
sonally, although .she had known all the 
horrors of the war of 1870, all the 
humiliations. And her attitude waa 


France. No 
capable of 
the French as 
the hour mo- 
ordered, can 
anything but 

Ollivier aptly 

that of all 
one who was 
really seeing [\ 
they were from 
bilization was 
say they 

In 1870, En 
phrased the spirit in which the 
nation went to war with Prussia, 
in the historic words, "a light heart." 
Theatres remained open, social life 
went gayly on without a break, 
nobody gave any personal thought 
to the war; the universal idea was 
that "somebody" would drive 
the Prussians back. To this war of 
1914 however, France went with 
absolute calm, almost, indeed, with 
silence. There was no exuberant 
belligerency, no hysterical patriotism. 
Every face seemed purged over- 
night of all selfish thoughts and 
baseness, and in the days that fol- 
lowed, everything that was fine in 
the French nature came to the surface. 
Theatres closed at once, even the mov- 
ing picture shows. Frivolity, in fact, 
dropped from the nation like a mask. 

While our little group of women 
stood silently looking at each other, 
too stunned to say anything, a sound 
electrified us, coming faintly from a 
distance — the roll of a snare drum. 
Rushing out to the street, we saw a 
picture that might have been taken 
from the history of a hundred years 
ago — an old man, gray-haired, crippled, 
ragged, coming toward us, head bent, 
ignoring the world as if he were an 
automaton, every atom of strength, 
mental and physical, centered in the 
call to arms that rolled out under his 
hands as if it must be heard to the 
remotest comer of the land. 

A dozen small boys in belted smocks 
followed him, cheering shrilly. Men 
lined the walks to wait his passing, 
their faces grave and stem, but their 
eyes alight, and the women — oh, they 
wept and wept. From our hotel a 
dozen cooks came leaping out, still 
in white aprons and tall white caps-, 
shouting with joy that the suspense 
was ended and that, at last, they could 

be "at 'em." For days each had had' 
a notice in his possession telling him 
exactly where to be at a certain moment 
after the order for mobilization was 
given. In half an hour, every man 
had left, literally dropping dishrag 
and chopping knife, to pick up bayon- 
eted guns; doffing the spotless white 
uniform of cooks and kitchen helpers 
to don the red trousers and long blue 
coats of the private in the army of 

The echoes of the drum had scarcely 
died away, when a wedding party 
came gaily down the narrow Grande 
Rue. A most pretentious wedding 
party it was, the bride and groom in 
an open landau, unashamed of their 
wedding finery, the relatives and 
intimate friends filling no less than 
eight carriages. None knew that war 
had come. Pretty bride and proud 
bridegroom rode with conscious smiles, 
ignorant that only a few minutes more- 
were left them of the long married life 
together that they had planned. Tears 
that had almost dried upon the cheeks 
of those who watched the passing of 
the ancient drummer, welled up again 
at sight of these young people so 
unconscious of the wreck of their 

In the morning came the first realiz- 
ation of what war might mean to me 
personally. The hotel would no long- 
er give the accommodations of "room 
and board by the week," so Madame 
told me. Guests must eat a la carte, 
and pay as they ate — and overnight 
all prices had doubled. Until then, 
too, I had thought it safer to remain 
outside Paris — probably there was 
no foreigner in Paris who did not recall 
the tales of mob atrocities under the 
Revolution and the Commune. But 
with morning came the realization that 
Enghien lay between Fort Montmor- 
ency and Paris, and that in the event 
of the enemy approaching the city, 
Enghien would be "warm," whether 
Fort Montmorency on the heights 
behind it remained in possession of the 
French or fell into the hands of the 
enemy. Moreover, Madame warned! 

Continued on page 51. 


In the Forefront 


The Silent Soldier 

Sir Ian Hamilton, whose formal inspec- 
tion of Canadian soldiery has 
turned into grim earnestness 

By Eldred Archibald 


'HE unluckiest man in the 
British army," they call him, 
but you are to understand 
at once that Sir Ian Hamil- 
ton's mischances have been purely 
personal and have not extended to his 
commands. His bad luck has con- 
sisted in getting himself shot and 
stabbed and otherwise injured in var- 
ious parts of his anatomy, and in 
various parts of the world. 

An almost useless left hand and fore- 
arm recall the day when a shell burst 
away off somewhere on the Indian 
frontier. Scars on his forehead are a 
memento of another Indian engage- 
ment when a flying splinter of shell 
almost cost him his eyesight. Once, 
during the South African war he was 
desperately wounded, left on the veldt, 
captured by Boers and abandoned 
because there was no hope of his re- 
covery. But he did recover, and then 
-came the crowning piece of ill luck. 
When his command was just rounding 
into shape and beginning the final 
clean up of De Wet in 1900, he was 
thrown from his horse and had his 
collar bone broken. 

Enough of him was left, however, to 
make a mighty good soldier, who hasn't 
missed a scrap in which Britain has 
been involved since 1875. The only 
reason he did not serve in the Crimean 
war was because he happened to be 
born the year it broke out, 1853. 
Twenty years later he was in the army, 
and in 1879-80 he was at it, full tilt, in 
Afghanistan. One year's rest and he 
found himself at Majuba Hill, that 
black day in 1881. He is one of the 
very few men who went up the hill 
that day and came down again on his 
own legs, badly hurt as he was. 

The Soudan claimed him in 1884-5 
.and the next year he was paddling up 

the Irrawaddy into the centre of Burma, 
alternately shooting at dacoits and 
catching fever. Seven years of piping 
peace followed, to his disgust, and it 
was not until 1895 that he got another 
chance to risk his neck. That chance 
came with the Chitral campaign and 
from 1895 till 1898 he was busy all 
along the Indian frontier. In 1899 the 
South African war broke out and for 
the next three years Hamilton was a 
very, very busy man. He went home 
once, but he had not been there long 
when Kitchener cabled for a staff 
officer. So back he went to clean up 
with "Bobs" and Kitchener. Hamilton 
was placed at the head of what military 
men call "mobile columns," which is 
just another way of saying hard-riding, 
straight-shooting rapscallions, mostly 
colonials who feared neither God, man 
nor devil but had a wholesome respect 
for their debonair, rather elegant 


Who remarked that "Canada 13 a cute country — very 
cute," and ruined a promising interview thereby 

leader who could ride harder and shoot 
straighter than most of them. 

After the last Boer had been chased 
to the last kopje. Sir Ian came home 

and became Quartermaster General to 
the Forces. He stayed put for almost 
two years and then he went as British 
Military Representative to the Russo- 
Japanese war. He had not been 
watching things for more than two 
weeks when he sent back word that the 
Japanese would win. It took courage 
and insight to make that report at that 
stage. His final report on that war 
has been translated into half a dozen 
or more languages. 

After the Russo-Japanese trouble 
was settled, he became general officer 
commanding the southern forces, then 
Adjutant General and was finally given 
the pleasant task of going all over the 
world inspecting and reporting on the 
defences of the Overseas Dominions. 

This was an agreeable billet. It 
entailed a vast amount of travel, but 
travel under the most pleasant con- 
ditions. It was when he made his 
meteoric progress across Canada with 
the Minister of Militia and a glittering 
staff in two special trains last year 
that Canadians caught their only 
glimpse of this war comet in human 
form. What he said about our military 
shortcomings drove some of our pacifists 
nearly insane. His report on Aus- 
tralasian needs, just tabled in the 
British House, would have had the 
same effect over there had it appeared 
at any other time. 

He is a queer mixture, this man. 
He has been ten times mentioned in 
dispatches, wears nine medals and 
sixteen clasps, and earned the Victoria 
Cross in South Africa. And yet he is a 
writer of excellent poetry, some of it, 
be it whispered, love lyrics of the most 
lyrical description, and frankly con- 
fesses that he never went into action 
in his life without being in a "blue 
funk and wondering whether he would 
ever get out of it." 

"Moreover," he adds, "I don't be- 
lieve the man has ever been born who 
felt much different." Certainly the 
man has never been born who con- 
cealed blue funk more successfully 
than does Sir Ian Standish Monteith 
Hamilton, G. C. B., D. S. O. 

A queer mixture, certainly, this poet- 
warrior, this writer of romances, who 



has killed his man in every quarter of 
the globe, who writes as well as he 
fights, but who eschews talk as he does 
the devil. 

"One of Hamilton's grunts is more 
exprersive than another man's speech," 
said a junior officer who had been 
grunted at one day. 

When driven into a corner, he takes 
refuge in the unexpected as when in 
Ottawa last year, an energetic reporter 
ran him to earth and undertook to 
corkscrew some encomiums of Canada 
out of him. 

"It's a cute country — very cute," 
said Sir Ian and walked away, leaving 
the reporter wondering how on earth 
he could make an interview out of 
that, for the one thing Canada isn't — 
is "cute." 

Writing about him some years ago, 
an English commentator said, "Should 
that war which has been so often prog- 
■ nosticated as being the only means of 
settling the differences between this 
country and Germany take place with- 
in the next ten years, it will fall to Sir 
Ian Hamilton to take a high command." 

We have the war and Sir Ian has his 
command. If he lives up to his record, 
Germany will know his name as well 
as England. 

Hamilton Gault 

Who is giving, as well as going with, 

the regiment he has personally 

raised for the service 

By William Lutton 

IT is difificult to be in earnest when 
you are very rich. A donstitu- 
tionally serious young man, on the 
right side of thirty, with many 
millions, would be a rara avis. And if 
the investigator did find him, he 
wouldn't be popular. 

But the possibilities of seriousness, 
the muscles to tighten the smiling lips, 
the soul to turn the polo-player into 
the patriot when necessity demanded — 
these things are essential if the rich 
young man is to be admirable as well 
as likeable, is to spring from the place 
of the one-thing-thou-lackest spender 
of millions, into the forefront position 
of the great sacrificer demanded by 
the opportunity of Empire. 

Hamilton Gault, regiment-giver who 
goes with his gift, was born in Rokeby 
House, Sherbrooke Street, Montreal, 
some thirty-two years ago — that splen- 
did family mansion with its ample 
grounds, so beautiful and restful to 
the eye and urgently desirable to the 
aesthetic mind by reason of its interior 
preciosity. His father, the late Mr. A. 
F. Gault, an Ulster Scotsman, was one 
of Montreal's most honored citizens. 


The namesake and liege lady of her regiment of Canadian Light Infantry 

He had been successful in his own par- 
ticular business. He was a liberal 
churchman and sustained the causes 
of the Anglican faith in Montreal with 
no niggard hand, at the same time 
commending his religious life to his 
family by his sunny nature, and to the 
world at large, by his utter absence 
of that "side" which is usually rubber- 
banded in with a pile of check books. 

Mr. Gault set high ideals before his 
family. His son, when his education 
was finished, joined the great dry- 
goods business in Montreal, a business 
the fame of which has spread far and 
near, for its generous treatment of its 
employees. He sold goods like one of 
the clerks; he did office work; and by 
his good nature, his geniality and the 
true democracy of his spirit, he made 




Who raised the Princess Patricia's Canadian Li?lit Infantry— and not only gave 
his money, but went himself 

hosts of friends among his fellow 

Out of office hours, he possessed and 
was possessed by, two useful and 
healthful fads — sport and the army. 

In Europe, where the Krupp night- 
mare is never downed, military life 
lias always had the stern seriousness of 
rehearsal for a performance which is 
sure to come off. In Canada, on the 
other hand, the high-spirited officer- 
lx)y used to get himself into his high- 
•colored uniform and go in for a high- 
priced good time. The sorting of the 
wheat of true Empire-servers from the 
■chaff of mere play-soldiers was left 
until 1914. 

But from the beginning, young Gault 
took his war-practice seriously. 

"I met him on several different 
•occasions," said a military colleague 
recently, "one being the divisional 
■camp at Kingston in 1904. when he was 
galloper (aide de camp) to Colonel 

Gordon, who was the camp commander. 
Lord Dundonald was in charge of the 
Canadian militia at that time. He was 
a gallant soldier, to give the devil his 
due, but like all the Cochranes of his 
race, very hasty and hot-tempered and 
most over-bearing to his subordinate 
officers. We had a big field day to- 
wards the end of the camp, and being 
on the staff, I was very near to the 

"As he had no staff of his own with 
him, he naturally used Colonel Gor- 
don's gallopers, with the result* that 
Gault had to get it when the General 
put his wrong foot out of bed first in 
the morning. 

"During the course of the manoeuvres, 
Dundonald told Gault to instruct 
the Cavalry Brigadier to bring the 
men past at the trot. Gault duly 
carried the message, and the cavalry 
duly carried it out. But as soon as the 
General saw them coming at the trot he 

turned and yelled at Gault, 'What do 
you mean. Sir ? Did I not tell you 
the gallop ?' 

" 'No, Sir,' said Gault, 'you told me 
the trot.' 

" 'Silence, Sir !' said the General, 'I 
will not have you contradict me !' 

'On this the Colonel, who did not 
like to have his pet gallojier reprimand- 
ed for nothing, said to the General, 'I 
am perfectly certain that you said the 
trot. Sir.' 

"This so put Dundonald out that he 
fairly sputtered with wrath. He still 
insisted that he had said gallop and 
was exceedingly rude about it. The 
militia of Canada nearly lost one 
of their most enthusiastic officers that 
day. Gault had brought his two best 
horses from Montreal at his own ex- 
pense, and had gone to a good deal of 
trouble to help make the camp a suc- 
cess. He did not at all like the 
way in which the English commander 
thought it necessary to impress his 
importance on the Canadians. But 
even then, the Service meant more to 
him than his personal pride and he 
remained, where another and smaller 
man would have resigned his com- 

He loved all sorts of wholesome sport, 
especially polo at which he was an 
adept, being for years, the president 
of the Montreal Polo Club. He had a 
keen eye, a dashing spirit, full of 
verve; he stood up in his saddle, all 
tense and taut, never failing in speed 
or brilliancy or daring. 

He was also a famous huntsman. 
He possessed a'n unerring aim with the 
rifle, and had the joy — a candidly 
savage joy — to see the big fellows 
topple to his gun in East Africa which 
he visited some years ago on a hunting 

A red coat, a polo pony, a good- 
friend rifle— these were not the only 
ties to Montreal and millions. 

Hamilton Gault is one of those 
fortunate men for whom the goddess 
has turned her cornucopia upside 
down. In marrying Sallie Stephens 
he won not only a beauty but a woman 
with brains and charm and bravery 
and true kindliness. 

They had an ideal home life. Both 
were philanthropic; each inspired the 
other. As president of Gault Brothers, 
Hamilton Gault was greatly esteemed 
for his commercial aptitude. He con- 
solidated the business; he gave the 
power of a robust mind to the great 
practical considerations which in the 
last analysis spelled dollars; but, 
influenced by the beautiful woman 
who was above all a precious comrade, 
he gave thought to other and higher 
things, the graces and assuagements of 
life, the kindly deed, the considerate 
thought, the plan for others' happi- 



And so time passed, easily, pleas- 
antly, one gold year after the other, 
until the fall of 1914. 

Then this young man, not frivolous 
at all, but full of the joy of life, awoke 
one morning and heard a call, the high, 
^imperious and peremptory call for 
srvice. "England, my England" was 
war. That inviolable isle set in the 
Iver sea needed help. 
Something large and insistent came 
him. He thrilled to the vision of 
tmpire. As in a flash he saw that he 
ad a great duty to perform. The 
lother Country which stood for the 
lighest and best in individual and 
national life was fighting for all that 
made that life desirable, and had need 
of every stalwart son. One thing he 
had to do. He must first of all offer 
himself. And then he must find other 
spirits as ardent as his own who must 
be formed into an organization so that, 
going to England, he might say to the 
mother who had nursed the young 
Canadian nation, "Here am I; here 
are companions. Take us; use us for 

He had not shirked any task: he 
had taken his duties as citizen and 
philanthropist seriously. While he 
loved all merry qnd wholesome things, 
he also had the sense of responsibility. 
But this was to be the great personal 
consecration. This was the high and 
sacred duty. 

When the public in Montreal heard 
that he had risen to the supreme 
sacrifice, they thrilled with the sense of 
the heroic. When they learned that 
Mrs. Gault was going with her husband 
to the front to do her own work, a 
lump rose in the throat. Here was 
love that was indissoluble, twin spirits. 


Who worked alongside of her husband indefatigably 
in raising his regiment 

committed to the high resolve. Where- 
cver they appeared the people cheered 
them, and on the memorable evening 
when the giver walked behind his 
regiment, the watchers, however poor 
or narrow or sordid in their lives and 
outlook, instinctively recognized and 
loved the great deed, the sublimity of 

But the chief grace of Mr. Gault is 
his utter lack of self-consciousness. 
He insisted that he was doing nothing 
out of the way. It was a matter of 
plain duty. It might be duty to sell 
drygoods or to make profits for his 
cotton shareholders. It might be as 
plain a duty to give his life for the 

Some there are who arc not quite 
sure that England should have entered 
this war. For men of the large mould 



of Mr. Gault, there is one thing clear — 
the imperious necessity of rallying 
round the flag, which stands for all 
that makes life worth while, in the 
spacious freedom that Flag affords. 

"Do not make too much of it," he 
remarked, deprecatingly, to friends who 
said praiseful things. "I am only doing 
my duty." 

That is the proud yet humble spirit 
which should win the war. 

Mrs. Willoughby 

A representative woman in whose 

judgment the women of Canada 

place complete dependence 

By Irene Wrenshall 


^UR four trunks were all full; 
and some suitcases too, but 
we couldn't refuse to take 
these. That is a pie for a 
private in the Queen's Own that his 
grandmother made him, and this big 
cake which was given to us at the train, 
is to be delivered into Sergeant 
Blank's own hands, for his mother iced 
it for him the very last thing. Yes, 
those are wristlets, but they were 
specially knitted for a certain group of 
boys so we didn't put them in with 
the others." 

The time was Tuesday afternoon on 
the eve of the departure of the first 
Canadian contingent from Valcartier 
to the front, the place, the thriving 
tented city of 30,000 and the laden 
down women who were carrying so 
many good-bye gifts for the soldier 
boys from anxious relatives at home, 
the Chairwoman of the Toronto 
Patriotic League, Mrs. Willoughby 
Cummings, with Mrs. Stearns Hicks 
and Mrs. Featherstonhaugh, on a tour 
of inspection, from the official stand 
point, and as messengers from home, 
from the personal stand point. 

It^was an informal party, though an 
official one, which, upon a large motor 
truck, went from one place to another 
all the afternoon distributing the 
personal gifts of gum, chocolate, 
knitted raps, etc., to the boys them- 
selves, after having spent the morning 
in a specially arranged distributing 
tent, where under the watchful eye of 
the chairman, everything was por- 
tioned out to th€ various companies 
about to depart. 

It was a place of vital and intense 
interest, this camp of young and stal- 
wart Canada, to these women who had 
been giving up their days and nights 
for iraany weeks past to energetic work 
and careful planning that the boy 
might go away as comfortable as 


possible, but though the welcome of 
the 30,000 men could hardly have been 
more enthusiastic, though the freedom 
of the city was theirs and the call to 
watch the volunteers off was par- 
ticularly strong, Mrs. Cummings felt 
the call of duty in Toronto stronger 
still and hurried homewards. 

This is representative of the woman 
upon whose judgment the women of 
Canada, who are one and all familiar 
with herself and her work, feel that 
they can place complete dependence. 

"Whenever I am appointed to a 
committee — and everyone else says 
the same — Mrs. Cummings is on it, and 
working hardest of all." 

This is the kind of complimentary 
reference simply and straightforwardly 
made, which you may hear any day 
in Canada, if you are talking to one of 
the women workers, be they members 
of the National Council, the Woman's 
Auxiliary of the Anglican Church or 
the woman writers, about Mrs. Wil- 
loughby Cummings, who is not only 
the Chairman of the Toronto Patriotic 
League, but also the representative of 
the National Council on the Central 
committee for Patriotic service. 

At the headquarters of the Patriotic 
League in Toronto you will usually 
find her at almost any hour of the day, 
now at the telephone giving someone 
exact data about a poor-relief case; 
now in committee with the workers 
of the local Patriotic League, or with 
the Central Committe, who by cour- 
tesy of the League meet in one of the 
rooms; now being interviewed by a 
troubled-looking reporter with a half 
hour of "fact collecting" to do, and 
fifteen minutes to do it in; now rush- 
ing off to address a meeting or estab- 
lish a branch for Patriotic service; 
always with a smile and a serene 
countenance, as though there were no 
such thing as bodily fatigue or mental 
worry in the world. 

But it is not only by the workers in 
Toronto that she is known. All over 
Canada hers is a familiar face, and her 
personality and her opinion carry 
weight from Vancouver to Nova Scotia. 
Indeed it is to the latter province that 
Mrs. Cummings is indebted for one of 
her more recent honors as she was 
given her degree of Doctor of Common 
Law, from King's College, Windsor. 
This she received as a tribute to her 
knowlege of social conditions and the 
legal status of women in Canada. Per- 
haps the outstanding characteristics 
of this most efficient worker are her 
unselfish, untiring, energy, her geniality 
and her memory. Of the latter, one of 
her fellow workers on the National 
Council of Women, of which Mrs. 
Cummings has been the corresponding 
secretary for about twenty years, from 
the inception of the organization, said 
recently, "Her memory of past events, 

past amendments to law, and efforts to 
obtain amendments, has been of ines- 
timable benefit to the National Council. 
She can state the exact date at which 
a law was passe<l, when any matter was 
brought up, either in committee or in 
the general Council, and what was 
accomplished at the time. Her brain 
is that of a historian." 

The experience gained in her years 
of service for the Council, in systematiz- 
ing large groups of letters, has enabled 
her to overlook all the clerical arrange- 
ments of the patriotic work and tiibu- 
late it on a scientific basis. Her busi- 
ness like method of handling all the 
troublesome details is a boon to the 
secretaries and a matter for deep 
gratitude to the various women journal- 
ists who apply to her for news. 

By her position on the Central 
Patriotic committee she has wielded a 
large and wide spreading influence 
upon the work of the women of Can- 
ada, over whom the Central Committee 
alone has jurisdiction, to prevent over- 
lapping. That there has been order 
instead of chaos, and that, instead of 
thousands of one article being made 
and two or three of an equally useful 
article, there has been a marked uni- 
formity in the supplies, has been largely 
due, her enthusiastic fellow workers 
will tell you, to the capable and clear 
brain of the National Council's repre- 

But it would not be fair to study 
Mrs. Cummings' characteristics solely 
from the point of view of the W. N. C. 
and the W. P. L. The daughter of the 
late Rev. Jonathan Shortt, D.D., 
rector of St. John's Church, Port Hope, 
and with a brother. Rev. Chas. Shortt, 
a missionary, it is not to be wondered 
at that Mrs. Cummings has always 
taken an enthusiastic part in the 
missionary work of the Anglican 
Church, and has been for many years 
editor of the "Leaflet," the official 
organ of the Women's Auxiliarj', a 
purely voluntary work. 

Mrs. Cummings has had a very great 
deal of international experience which, 
in combination with a natural breadth 
of mind, has given her a well-balanced 
viewpoint on all questions. She is 
keenly interested in human nature, 
having studied it as a woman writer 
on the Globe for a number of years, 
and as the government lecturer for the 
Dominion Annuities, a position which 
she held with great success, with the 
result that she can easily get into 
touch with all manner of people. 
Democracy is a strong principle with 
her, and she is quick to recognize the 
ability in the woman worker, and to 
provide all possible opportunities for 
her to display that ability to the best 

Local questions have always had a 
keen interest for her. Her Toronto 




patriotism has been proved by her 
work on the Woman's Committee of 
the Exhibition, and her present ability 
to keep in sympathetic touch with the 
poor-relief and employment question 
may be traced back to five years ago 
when employment was a burning issue 
in Toronto and when Mrs. Cummings 
as one. of a committee which carried 
'on the work of establishing an employ- 
ment bureau for women. 

It is the same story wherever you 
go. Those who have only heard her 
speak, thank her for her clearness of 
voice and lucidity of explanation, while 
those who are working with her find it 
hard to decided which of her character- 
istics is the most potential for the 
success of all with whom she comes in 
contact, the organizing brain, or the 
kind heart which produces that in- 
estimable gift of tact, the chief essential 
of a leader. 

The Fellow Who 
Fights at Home 

"Fat" Burns, of Calgary, who has put 

his resources at the service of the 

Empire in practical ways 

By Michael Svenceski 


'OU can put it strongly that 
there will be no famine in 
Alberta and that there is no 
danger of a meat famine in 
Canada, for this country has lots of 
cattle, pigs, and other meats," declared 
"Pat" Burns of P. Burns Co., Ltd., 
meat packers and canners and the 
Armours of Canada, in reply to a 
([uestion put to him with regard to the 
possibility of a meat famine in this 

There had been a slight rise in the 
price of pork and the interviewer, in 
the capacity of a reporter for one of the 
daily papers of Calgary had travelled 
out to Ogden where the large plants 
of the P. Burns Company are situated. 
He fcnmd Pat Burns in his ofiice, which 
was easily accessible and in that respect 
quite different from the sanctums of 
other kings — oil kings, land barons, 
and timber magnates. 

The C'attle King was quite willing 
to discuss the problem. In fact he 
went to great lengths to explain that 
the meat prices in Canada are governed 
by the state of the Toronto market 
and that the slight rise of a cent a 
pound in pork had been due to the 
excitement pervading the brokers in 
the Queen City. He pooh-poohed the 
idea of a famine and declared that he 
did not even expect the prices of meat 
to rise more. 

"The meat canning and packing 

'pat burns, of CALGARY 

Who is feeding tlie figliting men. Incidentally, he cut all his rents in Calgary 
fifty per cent when the war broke out 

companies can handle the demand 
and even if they were unable to do so, 
the farmers in many places have taken 
the wise course of raising a few cattle 
on their farms and these collected 
bands of cattle could stop a famine. 
But the meat companies are fully 
capable of taking care of the demand," 
said Mr. Burns confidently. 

And that started Mr. Burns on his 
favorite subject of "beef." He leaned 
forward, one hand gesticulating and 
the other playing with his watch chain. 

"The ranchers and small farmers 

are beginning to learn that a few head 
of stock kept around the farm, besides 
being helpful, are a good thing to fall 
back on when the crops fail. There is 
always a market for meat. The prices 
of this commodity have been advancing 
with the years and the raising of live- 
stock by the farmer is one practice 
which will make for the future pro- 
sperity of this country." 

At a meeting of the stockmen held 
in Calgary a short time previous to the 
interview, "Pat" Burns made a short 
speech moving that the Calgary 


association of st,ockmen unite with 
other bodies of stockmen so that the 
associations could act as one body 
with a single purpose. His one aim 
was to unite the stockmen, none of 
whom is big compared to the vast 
industry Burns controls, in preserving 
the province of Alberta's reputation 
as the leading stock raising province 
in the Dominion of Canada. 

At the time of the interview the 
troops were all on their way to Val- 
cartier and when questioned as to 
whether or not he would supply the 
meat for the government, "Pat" Burns 
replied : 

"Oh, I suppose they will want the 
best, so 1 am getting ready," and his 
eyes twinkled. The real state of 
affairs was that the government was 
already figuring with him and he was 
offering, through patriotic reasons, such 
low prices that undoubtedly he would 
get the contract. 

Asked at that time if he were going 
to do anything to help the government 
he replied that he supposed he would. 
Since then he has raised a big amount 
of money, sent a bunch of horses for 
the soldiers and, not content with his 
active work in securing contributions 
to the patriotic fund, he gave further 
evidence of the kind of patriot he is by 
reducing the rents of his tenants in his 
buildings in Calgary fifty per cent. 
But what makes the newspapermen 
angry — for they are always on the 
lookout for stories about the man that 
all Calgary respects — is the fact that 
he does everything quietly. If it 
hadn't been for a glad-hearted tenant 
telling a news picker about the cut in 
rents the public would never have 
known that "Pat" Burns had been so 

And yet when the interviewer made 
a clean breast of it and declared he had 
come to interview the Cattle King, 
the heavy-set, grey-mustached and 
shrewd-eyed Irishman shook his head 
and said: 

"I am nobody but a cattleman and 
I'm not worth a write-up. A cattle- 
man. That's all." He did not want 
a write-up of the things he had done 
for Canada, for Alberta and Calgary. 
He is still doing things for the great 
Western country that is his domain 
and like a true Westerner, he believes 
bouquets belong to funerals when the 
deceased has no opportunity of pro- 

Calgary is a pretty and praise-worthy 
town in her own way, but she prides 
herself more on her business activities. 
She hustles six days a week and on the 
seventh is restless for the coming Mon- 

The Sunday school teacher who was 
new to Calgary learned something of 
interest from one of the tots in her 
class. The lesson was an explana- 


tion of the wonderful work of the Al- 

"Now, class," said the teacher, "can 
anyone tell me who built the vast 
world ?" 

"God did," answered the first tot. 
The teacher put the next question to 
the second child: 

"And who made Canada the great 
and glorious country it is ?" The 
child questioned answered that it was 
"The Lord," and the teacher asked the 
third question. 

"And who made Calgary ?" The 
pupil hesitated a moment a(nd then 
with a sudden inspiration declared, 
"Oh please, teacher, Pat Burns." 

Before the land boom, Calgarians 
who belong to the ' ' I knew him when — ' ' 
club, would tell you that if it hadn't 
been for Pat Burns, Calgary would 
still be a water tank town. Perhaps 
Pat Burns did not build Calgary as the 
cronies say he did, but one thing is 
certain, and that is, that he put Cal- 
gary on the map. 

Before the name of Pat Burns be- 
came associated with the cognomen of 
Calgary, strangers hearing the name 
would remark that they had never 
tried it but if it was whiskey they'd 
have a "shot." The big personality of 
the great cattle king linked with Cal- 
gary made it a centre^ of interest. 
What would Vancouver, be without 
Pauline Johnson, or what would Mont- 
real be if Stephen Leacock did not 
reside there ? Nothing. A mere 
nothing. It's the places of interest 
and the big men and women who reside 
in a city that make it known. Mainly, 
the city depends on the fame of its 
people — what they have done. This 
is especially true of the far reaching 
western country where they do not 
ask who you are, or what you were, 
but what have you done ? They care 
not whether your ancestors butchered 
the enemies of the country or the pigs 
in the country. Neither will they want 
to know if your family belonged to the 
peerage class or the steerage class. The 
westerner is broad-minded and depends 
on his own deeds to make or break 

And you may well guess that Pat 
Burns doesn't have to rest on the 
laurels of forefathers to be the big man 
he is. He has done things himself and 
if it weren't for him the beefsteak or 
porterhouse you eat at dinner would 
come from Australia instead of the 
plains of Alberta where lie the bound- 
less ranches of the last cattle king of 

To-day Pat Burns is the remnant of 
that strong and mighty race of men — 
the cattle barons. When they held 
sway fifteen years ago he was a small 
rancher. They have gone. The 
homesteaders have fenced the open 
ranges and waved good-bye to the 

cattlemen, the scorners of limited areas. 
But Pat Burns did not scorn to have 
fences about his ranges and to-day he 
is the last of the honored band. 

Although Mr. Burns is typically and 
at heart a Westerner the land of the 
setting sun cannot claim him a native 
born. He hails originally from a dis- 
trict which has since become famous 
as a breeding place for millionaires; 
namely, Kirkfield, Ontario. Sir 
Donald Mann and James Ross both 
sprang from that vicinity. The Pre- 
sident of the Canadian Northern Rail- 
way, Sir William MacKenzie, was a 
chum of Pat Burns Once asked if he 
had ever known Sir William, Pat Burns 
remarked : 

"Yes, a little. We wrestled in our 
nightshirts together." This, of course, 
happened long ago in "school days." 
Those were short days indeed, for the 
future cattle king's father found lots 
of chores that occupied the youngster's 
time outside of school hours. But the 
lad profited by all his work and at the 
age of eleven put through his first deal 
— with a substantial profit for himself, 
and a profit for his father. 

By and by the land rush started 
many of the younger sons of Ontario 
westward. Pat Burns pulled his 
stakes, dropped the old oaken bucket 
into the well, and turned his face to- 
wards the setting sun. He arrived in 
Manitoba in 1887, and immediately 
procured for himself a homestead. Sir 
William MacKenzie, then called plain 
"Bill," came along surveying the line 
of the Canadian Northern Railway. 
Strangely enough MacKenzie drove a 
stake into a corner of the section owned 
by Burns and called it a station. Pat 
immediately sold out and drifted a 
little farther westward, to Brandon. 

However, the real wild west kept 
calling and calling. The prairie fever 
was at its height and, having once 
looked upon the "land that lies unto 
the skies," in 1890, Pat Burns took 
another turn at the wheel of fate and 
moved to Alberta. 

Once in the virgin country, did he 
loaf around waiting for something to 
turn up ? Did he seek out new friends 
and tell them the story of "paying it 
back on Monday"? Not a bit of it. 
He jumped right into business, and 
although there was competition on 
every side, the young rancher did not 
heed the frowns of the big ranchers. 
He kept up an Irish smile and proceed- 
ed with his pastime of accumulating 
land and cattle. 

The first "scoop" he put over the 
rest of the ranchers and cattlemen w'as 
that of shipping "rough beef" into the 
logging camps and mining towns of 
British Columbia while the rest did 
not like to take hazards with their 
products and were content to ship]iit 
east. Luck was with the young rancher 




and the shipment reached its destina- 
tion and Burn's bank account reached 

That was the beginning of the supply 
of "rougher meat" for a market which 
has since developed into a big trade. 
It was a gamble pure and simple, a 
hundred-to-one shot that he would 
make good in the new zone. He won. 
From that lucky shipment grew the 
foundation of a trade which to-day 
embraces twelve ranches that stretch 
for hundreds and hundreds of miles in 
the great prairie province of Alberta. 
That stroke started a trade that 
requires two packing houses, one in 
Vancouver and one in Calgary, which 
cover acres and acres of ground. That 
prime move generated a trade that 
now stretches from the Atlantic to the 
Pacific, a business that has twenty dis- 
tributing houses, besides innumerable 
retail shops in the principal cities of 
Alberta, British Columbia and Yukon 
Territory; a big trade that requires a 
big man to handle and no one can deny 
that Pat Burns, its founder, a cattle 
king arid rancher, is the only man who 
could handle such an irnportant and 
enormous amount of business and 
supervise it as he does. For even to 
this day he is the ruling power of his 
company, just as in the late nineties he 
rode as a cowboy, among his cattle, 
which then ran in twenties whereas 
to-day they run in thousands. 

Those were the happy days for the 
cowboy. They were the days when 
Southern Alberta was the real wild 
western cow country and from Red 
Deer to Montana the cattle roamed 
the ranges at will. There were no 
settlers, no homesteads, no fences, no 
wheat growers. The range, free and 
open as God's country, belonged to the 
cattleman at large. Round-ups were 
held twice a \ ear, in the spring and fall, 
and Pat Burns rode the ranges with 
his cowpunchers and superintended 
operations personally. 

In the Calgary clubs one may still 
hear the cronies tell of what a hard 
rider Pat Burns us( d to be and how 
full of ^rit and daring he had shown 
himself. His horse once stepped into 
a gopher hole, a feat that is easily per- 
formed on Alberta prairies, and threw 
the hardy rider. The result of the fall 
was two broken wrists. Friend reader, 
if you have ever attempted to get into 
a saddle without using your hands you 
will understand what a feat Pat Burns 
performed when he climbed into his 
saddle and rode eighteen miles ;■ a 
doctor. The doctor who patthea up 
the broken wri.sts still wond.:rs what 
sort of a fellow Burns was to have for- 
gotten to faint. 

Pat Burns does not pose as a critic 
or a student of the classics, but when 
it comes to judging men he shows 
better wisdom than even in his j udgment 

of cattle, and his judgment of cattle 
has made him millions. He can pick a 
man who is honest and fair because he 
himself is honest and fair. His word 
is his bond and every transaction with 
him is on a cash basis. He has been 
known to refuse a meal whose makings 
had not been paid for. It is an iron- 
bound rule in his ofifices, scattered over 
three provinces and a territory that 
covers half of Canada, that everything 
must be prepaid in buying and all 
deals are on a cash basis from the 
lowest to the highest. 

Once, whne being interviewed by a 
newspaperman in Vancouver, who had 
been a close personal friend of the 
cattle king, the big westerner was 
attempting to find in his pockets the 
card of a man who had been in the city 
and whose whereabouts he wished to 
discover. The newspaperman would 
be the likely man to know. Mr. Burns 
hunted through his pockets for the 
card. While taking out some small 
cards and toothpicks from a vest 
pocket, a little blue crumpled paper 
fell to the floor. The newspaperman, 
thinking it was the paper that the 
cattleman sought, picked it up .and 
opened it. He read its brief contents. 
Then his eyes bulged and he caught 
himself breathing quickly. In his hand 
lay a certified cheque payable to Mr. 
Burns for the sum of .seventy-five 
thousand dollars. The newspaper- 
man stufTed the cheque back into its 
owner's hands quickly, telling him to 
be careful of such money The cattle- 
man replied "Yes, I ve-y nearly forgot 
where I had placed thnt paper. Thanks 
for showing it to me." 

The newspaperman wrote half-a- 
column on the carelessness of multi- 
millionaires with thei ■ money. He 
let the world know th^.i: the big cattle 
king had so little regard for money that 
he carried it in a vest pocket. Im- 
mediately when the story was out over 
two hundred philanthropists wrote to 
the Calgary cattleman telling him in 
lucid terms where he could double his 
money many times over. The maid 
complained next morning about hav- 
ing to carry out so many letters to the 
ash -can. 

Another tale of the easy manner 
that Pat Burns has with money is that 
told of how he made the best speech at 
a meeting of a fraternal order to which 
he belonged. The reporters as usual 
were late and they immediately inter- 
viewed the secretary- to find out what 
the guest of the e\eiiing, Pat Burns, 
had said. 

"Well," remarked the secretary," 
"the only thing he said was something 
to the effect that he was not used to 
making speeches and — ," continued 
the secretary holding up a green piece 
of paper, "this is the rest of his speech.", 
The cheque was for a thousand dollars. 

But he is not a spendthrift. Far 
from it. Ask Pat for the secret of his 
success and what will he tell you ? 
"Oh, I know what I want and I try to 
get it," he will say laconically. Then, 
if you press him a little closer, you will 
find that his motto is, "Thrift." 

Once an Indian brought word into 
one of Burn's main cowboys' camps 
regarding a bunch of "drifters;" that is, 
cattle which had broken away from the 
main herd and had wintered it poorly. 
Cowboys and work, as a rule, do not 
agree and so the cowmen did not pur- 
sue the topic of "drifters." They pre- 
ferred to let them "drift." Not so with 
"Pat." He ordered out the herd- 
riders and brought in the stragglers 
near a railroad. Then he had the 
"drifters" shipped to Calgary; he fed 
them and finally brought them around 
to looking like cattle and then sold 
them for so much per pound. That 
is his best motto. But he has others 
which he uses oftener and one of them 
is, " Mind your own business and 
don't mind everyone else's." 

Therefore, when the interviewer put 
the question to him whether he thought 
the cattlemen of Alberta would band 
together and present the Caradian 
government with a bunch of horses for 
war purposes, the cattle king remarked : 
"Oh, I don't know anything about 
it. They may decide to do some- 
thing like that but I have not heard 
of it yet." 

The interviewer then decided to let 
the subject alone and get some "inside" 
stories of Mr. Burns' life and mentioned 
the reasons why he wanted these 
intimate tales. 

"Mr. Burns," said the scribbler of 
notes, "all Canada is interested in a 
man who has made a fortune from the 
land as you have done — and besides 
I've got to earn my daily bread." 

"Well, that is true about earning 
your bread — but, young man, what 
about sweating for it ?" Mr. Burns 
tried to appear serious. 

"Isn't this sweating for it ? Believe 
me, Mr. Burns, in the course of my 
career I have interviewed many men 
and written them up, but I never saw 
one yet who turned down an offer of 
publicity on the statement that he did 
not think himself a great enough man 
and was not entitled to it." 

"But why pick on me?" asked the 
westerner, "interview Mr. — or Mr. — ," 
and Mr. Burns mentioned several 
people prominent in and around the 
city of Calgary. 

"Don't you see, Mr. Burns, they are 
known only in the city, whereas you 
are a nation-wide figure — " 

"Ah pshaw, young man, you're be- 
ginning to believe your own fiction." 
The big man lapsed into silence for a 
moment and then went on, "I don't 
Coutinued on page 48 

"Good-bye, Toronto! Adieu, MonVeal!" 

Copyrighl International News Service ^,„.,^^~~„ OT-rn 


THERE are two kinds of soldiers 
in this War. The German 
brand is a carefully polished bit 
of mechanism in a great steam 
roller. His thought is censored to the 
point of annihilation, his initiative is 
deliberately drilled out of him. Von 
Kluck and the Kaiser will think for 
him, just as they think for the Reich- 

The British soldier — above_ all the 
Overseas Empire-defender — is just 
plain Bob Robinson in khaki instead 
of blue serge, handling a gun in place 
of a plough or a pencil — same Bob as 
he used to be — same songs, same 
slang, same girl down home to write 
to. He's earning one-ten a day in 
place of two or three or five, not be- 
cause a conscription officer rang his 
front door bell and wouldn't listen 
when his mother said he was ill, but 
because he stood in line for two hours, 
waiting for the chance to volunteer. 
This War will see the last of one 
soldier-type or the other. If the 
Kaiser can swamp France with his un- 
human grey-green waves of infantry, 
conscription and drill to automatiza- 


By H. R. Gordon 

Illustrated from Photographs 

tion will have triumphed. But if Bob 
Robinson, thinking of his home in 
Calgary, can shoot truer; and if 
Tommy Atkins from God-knows-where 
in the London slum can hold his bayo- 
net tighter, while he sings Tipperary; 
then it's good-bye to the steam roller 
method in war, just as it's been a 
lengthened process all over Europe of 
good-bye to the autocrat in govern- 
ment, the censor in journalism, and 
the slave-driver in the construction 

Meantime, Bob has gone overseas. 
And this is how they trained hirn in 
six muscle-hardening, joy-walking, 
sharp-shooting weeks at Valcartier. 

The first half of his Camp-life-tlme 
was a sort of readjustment, prelude- 
period. Bob the city man learned to 
sleep on the ground, eat skilly and 
beans out of a mess-tin and bathe in 
the open under a cold shower. Bob 

the village cutup and Bob the rough 
lumberman learned to stand steady 
and jump to the commands of officers 
half their size. City and country 
learned from each other ard both 
learned from the drill sergea:. 

Then the real work began. Shoot- 
ing and skirmishing were the two 
essentials. Day after day ihe bat- 
talions marched through dust or mud 
to the ranges, two to four miles from 
the camp, according to the section of 
the three mile line of targets assigned 
to them. One road led through a 
muskeg. The third battalion con- 
sisting of Toronto troops had to make 
the trip o^■er quivering moss and knee 
deep mire several times. At first the 
men, nearly all from offices, picked 
their way from hummock to hummock 
of firm ground, trying to keep their 
feet dry. At last one young officer, 
growing weary of the slow pace, called 
out in ver>' unmilitary language, 
"Come on boys, right through it !" 
He plunged into the mire at a run. 
Everyone followed with a cheer, and 
no one was regarded as a real man 
unless he was splashed with mud up to 



the waist. The procedure perhaps 
was German, but the method of at- 
taining it was most certainly not. 
r^The target practice was of a thor- 
oughly practical character. After a 
day or two of the usual deliberate fir- 
ing to allow every man to become 
accustomed to the peculiarities of his 
own rifle, "rapid fire" was the order 
of the day. At the sound of a bugle, 
fifty targets would be raised simul- 
taneously, and a half company would 
fire at them at the rate of one shot 
every eight seconds. It was not at rdl 
uncommon for men to score an "ave- 
rage 6i inners," that is to place every 
shot within an eighteen inch circle. 
The markers, sitting in their trenches, 
would raise their targets. Almost 
instantly a sputter would be heard 
and a tiny hole would appear. A few 
seconds later another pencil of sun- 
light would strike through another 
hole, just beside the first one, and so 
on till the ten shots were through. 
The bullets passed overhead in a 
steady swish, with a sound as of a 
heavy rainfall through hardwood trees. 

Here again the letter of the law was 
not unlike that of continental practice, 
but the spirit of joyousness in which it 
was carried out was thoroughly un- 
Teutonic. Little ' jackpots were 
usually formed by the men of each 
section with contributions of five 
cents from every man. The winners 
treated the others to pop, the only 
beverage available for celebrations. 

"This beats playing the ponies," 
remarked one steady loser, "because 
luck doesn't count." The target 
practice wasn't regarded as work but 
as sport. 

The shooting was varied by rehear- 
sing the attack in extended order. A 


mile from the targets, a battalion in 
close order would dissolve into scat- 
tered lines of skirmishers. Brown 
figures would suddenly rise from 
brown moss, dart forward for fifty 
yards, fall abruptly and disappear, 
leaving the plain apparently as bare 
of life as before. This process would 
I)e repeated until the foremost line of 
skirmishers was a quarter of a mile 
from the butts. Then the word of 
command would be heard, and a scat- 
tering crackle of musketry fire break 
out. The line would dash forward 
again, and more shots be delivered, 
and so on till they reached a point 
two hundred yards from the butts. 
Advancing under these conditions,with 


a change of aim necessary after each 
rush, and the exact range unknown, 
battalions scored from fifty to eighty 
per cent, of hits. 'Individual companies 
reached as high a percentage as 

As the Duke of Connaught remark- 
ed after watching a Western regiment 
fire, "The shooting is good!" 

The men who enjoyed open order 
work the most were the scouts. They 
were supposed to look out for the 
enemy. By some curious coincidence 
the enemy were always located in 
farmhouses where eggs and ' chickens 
and sometimes hot meals were obtain- 
able. After a month of skilly and 
beans, men could detect home cooking 
at a range of 5,000 yards. 

"What have you scouts been doing 
with yourselves ?" asked a captain 
when his men reappeared after an 
absence of an hour. 

"We got tangled up in some under- 
brush, sir," replied the senior scout, 
with a perfectly straight face. 

The captain looked hard at the bits 
of egg adhering to the private's incipi- 
ent mustache, turned round and smil- 
ed. When the men of the contingent 
reach the front they will not sit down 
supinely and wait to be fed. They will 
scout. And they will scout with 
politeness un-Germanic, for, with pay 
coming in at the rate of .fl.lO a day, 
four times as much as the British 
Tommy with the King's Shillin', they 
can afford politeness. 

For three dtiys, rain had fallen in 
torrents. A review, and a day's drill- 
ing in the rain had soaked almost every 
scrap of clothing in the camp. 

Did they lie down and groan, these 
soldier-men ? 

They did not. They stripped to the 



hide, rolled themselves in blankets, 
lit their pipes and sang, "How dry I 
am," and similar songs. The soaking 
was treated as rather a lark. 

A little later, brigade manoeuvres 
on a hot day left four thousand men 
five miles from home, with baking 
throats and sweat-soaked clothes. 
Dust wiis inches deep on the roads. 
How did they get back to camp ? 
They sang regimental songs. Most 
of them aren't poetry, but they push 
the pace painlessly, and that's what 
they're for. 

The officers in the main arc good 
sports. There is no such cleavage 
i)etween them and the ranks as exists 
in other armies. In many cases, 
privates and non-coms are personal 
friends of the men over them. In 
the evening when the day's work was 
over, the officers used to drift down 
through the men's lines to sing with 
them, or out on the parade ground to 
play football and baseball. If a Ger- 
man officer could see a lieutenant in a 
disreputable-looking sweater sitting on 
a soup-kettle in a cloud of smoke from 

the antics of regimental mascots. The 
half dozen dogs, one from each bat- 
talion, had a glorious game of tag. 
The harmony of the scene was broken 
up when a huge tomcat, the mascot of 
a Western battalion, chased all the 
other luck-bringers off the stage. 

The Queen's Own Rifles of Toronto 
had tied their hopes to a tiny kitten. 
Incidentally they had tied the kitten 
by a chain heavy enough to hold an 
elephant. One sad morning the cat 
slipped out of its collar and disap- 

"It broke the chain. It was a 
young tiger," was the general verdict. 

In the last fortnight of the stay at 
Valcartier, the seriousness of the war 
began to be realized, but without fear 
or sadness. Newspapers came with 
stories of tremendous fighting on the 
Marne and the Aisne and heavy 
casualty lists. Even the most care- 
less came to feel that they weren't on 
a holiday. The boisterous songs of 
the first weeks were heard less fre- 
quently. The evening choruses in the 
tents cultivated drawn out harmony 


the pipes of a dozen privates in under- 
clothes and great coats, leading the 
singing of "Where did you get that 
girl ?" he would die of dislocation of 
the dignity. The Canadian army is 
a democratic army and the officers 
are leaders rather than despots, leaders 
moreover who can grin as well as 

Sunday was curiously secular. Re- 
ligion was dispended in much the same 
way as rations of skilly and bread — by 
the wholesale. To complete the 
analogy, hymn books were distributed 
from motor trucks. The men in the 
rear ranks, unable to hear the service, 
usually occupied themselves watching 

instead of staccato noise. "By the 
Old Mill Stream," "I Wonder How the 
Old Folks are at Home" and "Mother 
Machree," were favorites. In the 
intervals of singing, little groups would 
talk in undertones, seriously. 

"You know," said one private as he 
laid down his paper, "I've always had 
a presentiment that I'd never get 
back home." 

A moment later he added, "Still, it's 
no use worrying." In five minutes he 
was joining in the chorus of "Casey 

The last evening in camp was an 
occasion that will be remembered by 
all the men long after they have for- 

gotten about spectacular reviews and 
monster church parades. Little groups 
gathered around lanterns singing, do 
not strike the casual bystander as out 
of the ordinary. But the men in the 
groups, drawing out the slow har- 
monies of "Annie Laurie" and "Suwanee 
River," knew that it was the last time 
many of them would ever meet around 
a Canadian camp-fire. And the silent 
ones, who stared out across drifting 
smoke at the sunset fading above the 
black masses of the Laurentians, felt 
that they were bidding good-bye to 
their own country perhaps forever. 
As the darkness closed they turned to 
the old hymns they used to sing on 
Sunday evenings in the twilight at 
home, "Abide with Me." "Oh God Our 
Help in Ages Past," and finally, 
"Nearer My God to Thee." 

Regimental chaplains drifted down 
f|uietly to more than one sing-song and 
said a few simple words more effective 
than any sermon. 

"We are all here," one of them told 
his listeners, "in an unselfish cause, 
to help other people against a bully. 
Let us remember to be unselfish our- 
selves in all things, to look after the 
next man to us. As a fellow who went 
through the South African War told 
me, 'Look after the man on your 
right, and the man on your left will 
look after you.' " 

"I'll be on the right of the line," 
remarked a sergeant, and everybody 
smiled audibly, Anglo-Saxonly glad 
perhaps of a break in the tension. 

Then came the final day, the day 
for which the six long weeks were 

In front of a tent in the morning 
sunlight a stalwart trooper sat on a 
soap box, writing a last camp letter 
home, and from the smile on his face, 
he was sending all sorts of cheering 
messages back to take off the edge of 
the parting. 

Up at the Lake Joseph Hotel, only 
five miles up the line of the Canadian 
Northern, where the wives and 
sisters and mothers of some of 
the soldiers had been staying for 
weeks, and which on account of 
its proximity to the camp and its 
easy access without pass, had been 
a constant rendez\ous for loved 
and loving ones, there were brave 
eyes, reddened with weeping but tr>'- 
ing to smile, lips that were being kept 
under the firmest control, and glances 
that lingered long upon those who 
might never again appear, save in 
memory. There were nurses, too, 
clear-eyed and experienced, soldiers 
every one of them, who would go with 
the contingent. 

In the full sunshine of an early 
autumn afternoon, tears were bra^•ely 
wiped away while eyes watched the 
Continued on page 51. 


This department is under the direction of " Kit " who under this familiar pen 
name has endeared herself to Canadian women from Belle Isle to Victoria. Every 
month she will contribute sparkling bits of gossip, news and sidelights on life as 
seen through a woman's eyes. 

Air: It's a Long Way from Tipperary. 

It's a long way from Canada, 

It's a long way to go; 
It's a long way from Canada, 

And the dearest girl I know. 

Good-bye' Toronto, 

Adieu, Mon'real; 
Farewell from Coast to Coast, 

And God keep ye all. 

It's a long way from Canada 

I'll be marching this fall — 
A weary way from my home land 

A nd the best girl of all. 

I— row short the summer ! How long 
it is delaying ! We have had the 
hot "spells," the cold night, the ex- 
quisite sunshine of the fall. The trees 
shaken with little gusts of wind are 
bowing their Benedicite. Despite the 
war, the old orb we call "the world" 
swings on. One day the God of Reve- 
lation will swoop upon it and then 
a number of us will be sorry. 

We have been warned of the spiritual 
burglary. "Like a thief in the night 
will I come," said the Lord God, but 
we continue to beat our carpets, cook 
our beans, read the war news, go to 
church and to sleep, and shear the 
sheep next to us; for we are human 
and finite and grasping, and our only 
hope is that the beneficent Shepherd 
will have pity upon us — His poor 
straying sheep. 

Said the man at the crossroads, a 
belligerent fellow: "Maybe it would 
be the roast beef — they drum that tune 
— or the good ould ale, but Pedlar, me 
son, the Anglo-Saxon is a hard man to 
beat. The divil is cheerful even if the 
war is going against him — which it 
isn't. Th' ould souldiers that are left 
behind in this war are the fine men. 
I was in Maf eking when Cronje pro- 
posed a surrender to avoid further 
bloodshed, if you plaze; but B. P., 
the big ould scout, roused out of his 

sleep, said I'll let ye know when I've 
had enough, and begar, he turned on 
his blanket and went to sleep again. 
Man alive, when the boy at the wheel 
can crack a joke, the world is all right 
and God's in His Heaven." 



'HE proverb "Every bullet has its 
billet" was, like many another 
thing, "made in Germany." -John 
Wesley, in his "Journal," gives the 
credit of its first use in England to 
Dutch King William. Some men seem 
not to be destined to be the billet of 
any bullet. They bear charmed lives. 
They are often in danger, often in the 
thickest of the fight, yet they never 
cross the predestined path of a bullet. 

There is a superstitious belief extant 
in Germany that bullets cannot harm 
certain people. A legend has it that 
a Croatian captain who fought first 
on the side of Parliament, and then 
for the King in the Civil War, was shot 
at by his Colonel for not returning a 
horse to which he had helped himself. 
Two bullets went through his buff 
coat and a bystander saw his shirt on 
fire. The Croat quietly took the bul- 
lets from inside his coat and handed 
them back to his colonel. 

"And many a lad of them will go 
under without ever firing a shot and 
there's where the pity of it all catches 
you — " A boy in camp was playing 
"Home, Sweet Home" on a mouth 
organ. A long, lank lad, well under 
twenty, with a pale, eager face and 
those very bright eyes of youth — 
wonderful wanting eyes. Yes, many 
a Valcartier lad will go under without 
firing a shot and there will be only one 
being who will weep in the night and 
suffer and grieve all the days and that 
will be the boy's mother. Fathers are 
dear and proud persons, but it is always 
the mother who is the worse hurt 


when the little lad of her own body is 
injured or killed. 


QUEEN MARY has set her foot 
down upon the notion of fine court 
ladies going out as Red Cross nurses. 
She spoke her mind plainly to one of 
these society dames lately in her own 
practical sensible fashion. They had 
quite enough of fine lady nurses during 
the Boer war. 

This time there will be no Cupid in 
the camp of Mars. The nursing 
ladies in the South African war were 
an unmitigated nuisance, as Kitchener 
could tell you. They even brought 
their maids with them to add to the 
confusion, and the scandals they caused 
would fill the pages of one of those 
unsanitary magazines which of late 
have brought the brothel into the 
drawing room. 

So far as organization goes this 
tremendous war seems to be perfect. 
There will be no mistakes such as 
occurred in the Cuban and Boer wars. 
There will be nd siege guns shipped to 
the scene of war — without sights — no 
condemned and putrid beef, no 
drunken commanders of transports, no 
lack of surgical and other supplies. 
At this moment the faith of the whole 
Empire lies in Kitchener, and K. of K. 
never yet failed. 


"PHE magnificent thing about the 
British troops is that they refuse 
to be depressed. Now that the wound- 
ed are coming home, the noticeable 
thing about the poor brave chaps is 
their cheerfulness. When the man 
at the wheel can crack a joke with the 
tempest, the passengers are not likely 
to feel frightened. They are Mark 
Tapleys, every one of the lads who go 
cheerfully into the trenches with a 
hitch of the belt and a jest. Tommy 
A. does not joke like the gay-hearted 
French soldier. "Piou-Piou" sings a 
lilt about his grisette or the Boul' Mich' 
or something a trifle worse, and marches 
along cheerfully. Tommy A. jests in 
a quieter, grimmer way, but Lordy ! 
there's a lot of back-bone to it. 

"A few more miles, lads," said the 
young officer with a bandaged head, 
"and you shall have a good sleep." 
And just to show him they were with 
him, a few poor wounded chaps began 
an impromptu dance — such a ghost of 
a little brave dance ! — saying "Lor' 
love you. Sir, we're not tired." It was 
then a six-inch shell fell amongst them 
and six went to their eternal sleep. 
The other day it was, when falling back 
from Cambrai. 

Bless you ! all the German philo- 
sophy in the big, wide world goes to 
dust before a grain of humor, of cheer- 


And wait. The modern Tommy A. 
did not get his whole-hearted cheery 
courage "off the wind," as we say in 
Ireland. He comes by it honorably 
from his blessed British forbears. 
"My lads," .said one of Nelson's old 
admirals, "my bucks, you see yonder 
the land of Egypt. Well, if you don't 
fight like devils you'll soon be in the 
house of bondage." "Aye, aye. Sir," 
was the response, "but we'll put the 
house in hell first." 

And they did. 

On the field of battle Tommy A. 
chaffs death like an old friend. "I 
could do with a pint of 'arf and arf,' " 
said one as he waited for his red-hot 
rifle to cool. " 'Old on," said his pal 
in the act of firing, "my regrets is for 
the sour wine I didn't finish." A shot 
swept the bowels out of him and he 
toppled over on his companion. Im- 
mediately two Germans fell to his 
account while Tommy A. swore deep 
in his throat. 

"Thank God !" said the "little 
orficer" down the line, "my men are 
still swearing." Oh, don't be shocked, 
lady ! Swearing is merely steam escap- 
ing — a fact which God knows and tlie 
angels register as such. 


r^REAT fault is being found with the 
British censor, and the press-men 
are indignant at being told they must 
go to the back door of the Press Bureau 
to get the meagre news. Poor news- 
paper people ! No class is treated 
with greater indignity. I remember 
when I was a cub waiting and wander- 
ing round hotel or theatre to get a 
glimpse of some actress or stage nota- 
bility. For hours and hours you would 
wait and dawdle. Then be received 
for five minutes and condescended to 
and dismissed in the most peremptory 
fashion ! And you couldn't say how 
haughty and ill-mannered your 
"genius" was. You had, like the 
Irishman, "to butther her up and 
slither her down" the throats of your 
readers. And you would walk home 
two miles in the wet and cold, because 
you hadn't car fare and two kiddies 
were waiting, and wring out your 
skirts in the bath tub and put them 
on half dried in the morning. And 
be thankful for the meagre salary 
preempted by the butcher and grocer 
long before it was earned ! And it is 
the same to-day. 

In Cuba-time you were arrested by 
a red-headed official for sending an 
innocent wire to your chief apparently 
regarding books, but which meant 
that an army was moving. And your 
chief told you in cold anger that you 
had been almost a failure — because 
you got yourself arrested. And now 
the correspondents are dragging be- 
hind armies, knowing nothing of what 


has Happened except what refugees may 
tell them, and faking the rest, poor 
chaps ! 

"What news of the battle ?" cries 
everyone. You remember your Plu- 
tarch and what the Athenian barber 
got for spreading a false re[)ort of the 
defeat of the Greek army. Human 
nature is an immense book. You can 
find a new story in it each day, but a 
tale that has no end in the universal 
thirst for news, and the passion for 
spreading it. It is a difficult factor 
to deal with. The world, however 
deeply interested in commerce, finance, 
industry, holds its breath at the sound 
of battle. Watch the people gather- 
ing about the bill boards; all sorts 
and conditions. It's a funny jumble. 
They stand, and stare and read. 
Repetition most of it, but — everything 
gives way to news from the front. 


T OFTEN wonder at the age of 
things. The first English-printed 
newspaper for the prevention of false 
reports was published in 1588 when 
Spain was preparing for her "Invinc- 
ible" Armada. It was called the 
"English Mercurie," a bit of a sheet 
issued under the personal supervision 
of Lord I3urleigh. There are, or were, 
but three numbers of it in existence. 
I had the good luck to see one in a 
one-time famous book and print shop 
in London. The first, dated July 
twenty-fifth, 1588; contains intelli- 
gence from Sir Francis Walsingham 
that the Armada had been sighted "in 
the chops of the Channel." After this 
came our British count — a fleet of 
eighty sail against one hundred and 
fifty Spaniards. Think of it ! And 
we beat 'em. 

To quote Mr. Puddlebox (and I am 
going to introduce you to him in a 
minute): "O all ye fleet of eighty 
sail, bless ye the Lord: praise Him 
and magnify Him forever !" Don't 
fret, that's what old Britain is doing 


A LETTER from Brandon (Man.) 
beseeches the Pedlar to eschew war 
and "write something to make us 
happy." Dear man, if the Editor 
wants "war stuff" how can we gabble 
about fresh fields and pastures new ? 
And yet — suppose we leave the battle- 
fields for a moment and look out in our 
own bright and beautiful Canada on 
Indian summer which, if not with us 
now, will be sure to hearten us before 
the second, and lasting snow flies — 

Open wide 
The window and my soul, and let the air 
And out-door sights sweep gradual gospels in. 

Golden Summer has flashed back, 
and is peering through the purple veil 

of Autumn at the old earth she had 
so long cradled in her warm arms. 
The labored breathings of the dying 
year rise from the worids, and hang, a 
throbbing haze, alx>ve the deep ravines, 
where, under the gentle shadow, th( 
trees shed their leaves softly. The 
great |) of the year is with us. 
Already has the foot of Winter been 
heard on the hills, and at the sound, 
shuddering Autumn is calling on Sum- 
mer to turn her radiant face on the 
old earth again, before she walks over 
the sunny hill into the shadow beyond. 
So, hearing the voice of her tawny- 
haired sister. Summer, with her last 
roses garlanded about her Ijrows, is 
hastening a little way down the hill, 
and the brown earth rejoices. The 
blue-birds pause on their way south to 
perch and preen in the warm sunshine, 
singing their little plaintive song, and 
belated grasshoppers fillip over the 
grass, springing their whirring rattles 
as they skip joyously down the sunn\ 

Down by the pool the willows are 
groW'ing rusty. The sunlight streams 
through them, and dances over the 
surface of the water, which, glitters as 
though flashing lances were being 
thrust up and down and across. Far 
back in the little wood that crowns the 
hill the jay chatters harshly, drowning 
the sound of the falling lea\es that 
slip softly to the ground. The pines 
step boldly forth, uplifting their beauti- 
ful heads to meet the singing wind, and 
waving greetings as he sighs past. 
The sunlight gleams on the sleek, gray 
trunks of the distant belt of beeches, 
glancing from them to warm lovingly 
the little wan maple that is slipping 
away in quick decay. Sunburnt 
Nature is touching with kindly hands 
her woods and hills and valleys, wash- 
ing her great plains with sunshine, 
steeping all the world in gracious 
warmth before she laj's aside her russet 
Autumn gown and garland of vine- 
lea\es to put on the cold white robes 
of Winter. Silent and still as she 
seems, she is yet busy preparing the 
earth for the coming of Spring, as well 
as for the winter sleep. The strong 
young buds of next year are there 
curled up, and hiding amid the autumn 
tints on the trees that seem so stripped 
and hopeless. They will swing on the 
rattling branches all through the win- 
ter, wrapped securely in their downy 
sheathes, until the heavenly voice of 
Spring calling, they will awake, and 
unfurl their tender green banners in 
silent haste. 

Now, too, the aerial seeds wing over 
the land. Pop ! Pop ! go the milk- 
weed pods, revealing the exquisite 
silken fluff topped with little brown 
seedlings. The wind catches the airy 
nothing, and sports with it through 
Continued on page 50. 



Putting up meadow hay in the Nechako Valley. 

Stock thrives on the rich grasses in the N ec hako Valley. 

Farming Opportunities fa British Columbia 

Come to the Rich, Sunny, Mild 


on the Main Line of the Grand Trunk Pacific 

Let this Board of Trade, which has nothing to sell, 
give you reliable, disinterested, free information. 

T EARN about the wonderful opportunities for farming and 
■"^ stock raising in the fertile Nechako Valley, the largest 
and richest connected area of agricultural land in British 
Columbia. Fertile soil. Mild, bracing climate. The best mixed 
farming country in Western Canada. On the main line of a 
transcontinental railroad. Near good, growing towns. Near 
schools and churches. 

Government Department of Lands says: " The Valley of the 
Nechako comprises one of the finest areas of land in British 
Columbia." Dr. Dawson, the well-known Government expert 
and investigator, says: "The Nechako Valley is the largest 
connected area of lands susceptible to cultivation in the whole 
Province of British Columbia." 

Here is independence and health calling to you! The 
Nechako Valley needs settlers. In our own immediate neighbor- 
hood are many thousands of acres of good, fertile, well located 
land which you can buy at a very low price. 

This Board of Trade does not deal in land nor anything 
else. It only wants to bring you and the land together. The 

land is here, waiting for you. It will bring you big harvests 
every year and keep on swelling your bank balance. 

Let this disinterested Board of Trade advise you about the 
farming and stock raising opportunities in thi.<! rich Valley. Tell 
us how much land you want, what experience you have had in 
farming, approximately what you are prepared to pay for the 
land and what resources you have to put it under crop. YOU 
Wewill advise you honestly, frankly, whether there isan oppor- 
tunity for you here and if so, where and why. We will bring 
you and the land together. 

If you have slaved in a more rigorous winter climate, away 
from neighbors, away from green trees and clear, running water, 
come to the Nechako Valley and enjoy life and prosperity. 

Write to-day. Investigate AT ANY RATE. You owe 
that to yourself and your family. There is no obligation on 
your part and OUR SERVICE IS FREE. 

There are several good business openings for pro- 
gressive men and women in this fast growing town. 
If you are interested write to-day. Remember this 
Board of Trade has nothing to sell you. 

Board of Trade 
Vanderhoof, B.C. 

" The Dominating Center of Nechako Valley." 

We have nothing to sell. 

Fill out, clip and mail this coupon. 

C. M. Oct. 

Board of Trade, 

Vanderhoof, British Columbia. 

I wish to get a farm of acres for 

at about $ per acre. My resources 

are about $ This coupon 

does not obligate me in any way. 





Suppose your children had their choice 

of homts to which to go for breakfast. And 
one home offered them a. dish like this — Puffed Wheat 
or Puffed Rice with 
cream and sugar, or 
mixed with any fruit. 
Dainty grains, flaky, 
crisp and tempting — 
eight times normal 
size. Grains that taste like toasted nuts. 
Where would they go for breakfast ? 

Suppose your folks, for a dairy-dish 

supper, had their choice of bread or crackers, 
or Puffed Wheat or Puffed Rice. And they saw these 

toasted Puffed Grains 
— airy, thin, inviting 
— floating in bowls of 
milk. Grains four 
times as porous as 
Which would they choose for their milk ? 

I Puffed Wheat, - 10c | 
I Puffed Rice, - - 15c 


Except in Extreme West. 

These bubbles of grain were created 

for you by Prof. A. P. Anderson. They are 
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Tl^e Quaker QdXs (J)inpany 

Sole Makers 


Doc Lamberts 
Second Choice 

Continued from page 22. 

it to be attended to by your friends ?" 

"I don't want a grave stone," Doc 
answered. "That's another thing 
which shows the weakness of most 
people. Everybody wants a grave 
stone, and why ? It's mere personal 
vanity. If a man deserves a grave 
stone, all right; but how many men 
are entitled to them ? Not one in ten 
thousand. I have done nothing to 
deserve a grave stone." 

"But," said Mrs. Stetson, "I think 

you ought to have one, all the same. 

Doc Lambert' carved under a marble 

iamb would be so appropriate, don't 

you think ?" 

Doc refused to argue the point. 

One Monday morning he came to 
the office in a state of wild indignation. 

"This is an outrage !" he exclaimed, 
slamming his hat on his desk. "By 
the Lord, I'm going to find out whether 
there is such a thing as justice in this 
country or not." 

"What has happened ?" asked 
Danny Richardson. 

"I went out to see my grave yester- 
day, and it was gone !" 

"Gone ? How could your grave be 
gone ?" 

"They've cheated me out of it ! 
They've buried another man in it. 
Buried him in my grave, that I've 
bought and paid for 1" 

"How did that happen ?" 

"It happened as ever>'thing else 
happens in this world. They robbed 
me of my right, that's how it happened. 
By thunder, I'll have the law on them! 
I'll show them !" 

"Didn't they make any explana- 
tion ?" 

"Certainly. But what, good did 
that do? The man was in my grave, 
and the explanation didn't take him 
out of it. Things have come to a fine 
pass if a man can't be sure of his grave 
after he's bought and paid for it. 
They claimed it was a mistake, but I 
don't believe it. They knew I liked 
that grave and they went and buried 
another man in it just to interfere with 
my satisfaction. The world has al- 
ways been against me. I felt when I 
got my grave that it was too good to 
be true. I've been expecting from 
the first that they'd find some way to 
keep me out of it." 

"Well," said Mrs. Stetson, "they 
will, of course, have to refund your 
money or give you another grave." 

She spoke with kindly sympathy, 
for Doc seemed to take it so hard that 
we all felt a bit sorry for him. 

"They've offered me another grave 
in place of it," he admitted, "but it 
won't be like the grave I've lost. I 



picked out that grave because it some- 
how appealed to me.* I'd got used to 
going out there and sitting on it, too, 
and thinking of the good, long rest I 
was going to have in\it. It was a 
comfort to me. You people who have 
never been robbed of graves can't 
realize how it gives one the feeling 
of being left out in the world, home- 

"I should think," said Danny Rich- 
ardson, "that you could get them to ■ 
dig up the man they've buried there, 
so that you might have the grave for 
your own use, after all." 

"No," Doc sadly replied, "it's spoiled 
forever, as far as I'm concerned. "I'd 
no more think of having myself buried 
in a grave that had been used by soine- 
body else than I'd think of wearing 
a suit of clothes some other man had 
worn." • 

"Cheer up," Mrs. Stetson urged. 
"There are plenty of good graves left. 
You may find another that will suit 
you just as well as this one did. Who 
knows ?" 

"I'm to go out next Sunday," he 
said, "to look over their stock of empty 
graves, but I don't much expect that 
I'll find any to please me. And even 
if I do, how can I be sure they'll not 
make another mistake ? I supposed a 
graveyard was one place where they'd 
be careful — where a man could be sure 
they'd let him have the little patch 
of ground he was entitled to; but 
there's no such thing as fairness any 
more, and nothing is sure. If I find a 
grave that suits me this time I'm going 
to get into it before they have a 
chance to chuck anybody else in ahead 
of me." 

By a rare streak of good luck — 
according to Doc's belief any kind of 
a streak of good luck was rare in his 
case — he found another grave that 
appeared to be splendidly suited to his 
needs. It was in a remote part of the 
graveyard and in some ways it pleased 
him even better than he had been 
pleased with the grave he had lost. 
Doc was not easily pleased. 

"I can't think of a single fault that 
it has," he said with something like a 
touch of pride. "It lies at the top of 
a little slope, so I shall not have to 
fear contamination. There is no tree 
near it, either, so there's not much 
danger that women or children will 
come there to sit in the shade, and 
that's a comfort. I'm going to like 
I his grave, and I hope to get safely 
moved into it before snow flies." 

After he had filed away the deed to 
his new grave he announced that he 
had found a new and delightful method 
of self-destruction. It was described 
in a clipping which he produced. 
Without asking whether we cared to 
iiear it or not he read the delectal)le 
story of a man who had used a hypo- 

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dermic needle to inject into his veins a 
liquid which had caused instant and 
painless death, without producing any 
distortion of the body or features or 
causing ever a drop of blood to escape. 
"This," said Doc in a tone of 
triumph, "is the thing I've been look- 
ing and waiting for. There is some- 
thing about it that appeals to the 
aesthetic sensibilities. It is at once 
artistic and thoroughly effective. 
There is no danger of bungling or 
making a mess of it. Once the needle 

has been applied, it is all over. One 
need not be afraid of being ircum- 
vented by officious meddlers. I con- 
sider it a fortuitous combination of 
circumstances that this should come 
to my notice just at the time when I 
have got everything about my new 
grave satisfactorily arranged." 

Mrs. Stetson had been stricken with 
illness a day or two before Doc came 
into possession of his new grave, and 
we were considerably disturbed when 
we were informed that her malady 


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had developed into typhoid fever. 
It appeared that she had been almost 
starving herself in order to maintain a 
home for her children, the consequence 
being that her system was so enfeebled 
as to make her recovery doubtful. 

The boys in the office got up a purse 
to keep the children supplied with food 
and care, but the amount we were 
able to raise was merely sufficient to 
maintain the widow's little establish- 
ment for a week or two at the most. 
Barton & Smart had not been prosper- 
ing lately and they did not feel disposed 
to pay Mrs. Stetson's salary, since it 
had been necessary to engage another 
stenographer in her place. 

Of course we didn't ask Doc Lam- 
bert to subscribe and he expressed no 
desire to contribute. In fact we were 
so much concerned over the brave 
little woman's misfortunes that we 
forgot Doc's new grave and his suicidal 
intentions until one morning when, he 
failed to put in an appearance at the 
office. Even then we attached no 
importance to his absence, nor did 
anybody begin to worry about him 
until three days later. Then his land- 
lady telephoned in to ask if anybody 
knew where he was. She reported 
that he had mysteriously disappeared, 
after paying her in full, and she was 
afraid "something might have hap- 
pened to him." 

Doc's talk about committing suicide 
had never been taken seriously by any 
of us, but his unexplained disappear- 
ance caused us to have grave mis- 
givings. We made inquiries of the 
police and looked up the records of the 
morgues, but no trace of him was dis- 
covered. He had vanished without 
leaving any more evidence of the man- 
ner of his departure than if he had 
been a wraith. 

Two weeks after Doc's departure 
Danny Richardson and I went out to 
Mount Hope to discover whether he 
occupied his grave or not. It was 
curious that none of us had thought 
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usually the last place in which any 
one is found. Perhaps an uncon- 
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turned enough to make the cemetery 
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seemed a shame that any one had to 
be dead on such a day. At an office 
near the gate we made inquiries. The 
man who had charge of the records 
recalled our friend at once. 

"Yes," he said, "I remember him. 
A bit queer, I should say. It was too 
bad about that mistake we^made, but 

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such things will happen even in the 
best regulated cemeteries. Still, he 
got ''a better grave than if he'd kept 
the first one. It's better suited to him." 

"I suppose," said Danny, "you try 
to give people graves that are becoming 
to them, just as a tailor endeavors to 
make a man's clothes in the style that 
will set him off to the best advantage ?" 

"Sure," the cemetery man replied. 
"Now you take your friend. The best 
kind of a grave for him is one that's 
back, pretty well where there won't 
be any danger of women and children 
runnin' over it. It's too bad he gave 
it up. He'll not get another like it in 
a hurry." 

"Do you mean that he isn't using his 
grave ?" Danny asked. 

"He sold it a couple of weeks ago. 
I guess he made a little something on it, 
but he was foolish to let it go. What 
good'll the profit he made out of it do 
him when he needs the grave ?" 

This was reassuring. We ha^ felt 
some reluctance about asking point- 
blank whether Doc was in his grave, 
probably because we were afraid to 
learn the truth. When we found that 
he had not been buried we secured 
directions concerning the location of 
the grave and decided to have a look 
at it to satisfy our curiosity. On 
reaching it we found Doc sitting on a 
little mound near by. He nodded 
sadly in response to our greeting. 

"What's the trouble. Doc ?" Danny 
asked. "We hear you've sold your 
grave." ^ 

"Yes," he said, "I've given it up." 

"Decided that it didn't suit you, 
after all, eh ?" 

"No, it was just what I wanted. 
It's a good grave. I'm sorry I couldn't 
keep it. I hope to be able to buy it 
back some day, but I suppose I'll be 
disappointed. I've never had any luck." 

"Where have you been all this time ? 
We supposed you were dead." 

"Never mind where I've been. It's 
good of you boys to be interested in 
me, but let it go at that. You needn't 
worry any more. I'll have to live on 
now._ My grave's gone, and there's 
nothing for me to do but take up my 
burdens and carry them along." 

He returned to work the next day, 
without ofTering any explanation of 
his absence and he lost no time in 
permitting us to understand that he 
did not care to be questioned about 
the matter. 

A few weeks after Mrs. Stetson had 
recovered she came to the office one 
afternoon when Doc happened to be 
out. We learned then that he had 
sold his grave for the purpose of raising 
money to provide for the widow's 
children after our little fund had been 
exhausted. His absence had been due 
to the fact that he had gone to another 
city to dispose of certain building lots 



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on which it had been his purpose to 
establish a home for aged and indigent 
unfrocked ministers. 

As our former stenographer was 
leaving Danny Richardson asked: 

"Does he still expect to commit 
suicide ?" 

There was a twinkle in her eyes as 
she replied: 

"He has burned his clippings and is 
teaching our little boy to say grace at 

The Jade Earring 

Continued from page 26. 
"On the canvas," he said, "was a 
carefully painted portrait of a very 
beautiful young girl. Young — oh, I 
should say in her middle twenties. It 
must have taken two or three sittings 
— three, anyway, of pretty fast, skilful 
painting — to have carried it as far as 
it was. The last of them must have 
been that very morning, because part 


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.-■^■•' • 
of the paint on the canvas was wet. It 
hadn't even dried on the palette. The 
thing was obviously a portrait of the 

"The outline of the rim of the palette 
showed in the lower part of the canvas, 
but as if held in the right hand, as of 
course it always is when you sit down 
in front of the mirror and paint a por- 
trait of yourself. She had even indicated 
the frame of the mirror on the canvas. 
It was all perfectly solid and real. 
As I said, the thing was well painted, 
though not brilliantly nor trickily at 
all — an excellent, an extraordinarily 
talented piece of work. It wasn't com- 
pleted. In fact, part of the canvas 
wasn't covered at all. It was one of 
my canvases — a gray one like that 
blank I turned around just now." 

"Well, you had something tangible 
to go on at last," said I. "What did 
you do ?" 

"It was hardto decide what to do," 
said JefTrey. "I didn't go up in the 
air at all. The fact that I had some- 
thing tangible was, in its way, a sort 
of relief. And I still think what I de- 
cided was the best thing I could have 
done — that was to just stay there in 
that studio until something happened. 
I made up my mind not to leave the 
room for more than thirty seconds, 
until that mysterious painter" — he 
stopped and gave a shivering little 
laugh — "the ghost girl, came back. 
I thought she would come back, and 
that before many hours. 

"Well, I waited. Spent most of 
the time smoking, staring at the por- 
trait. I studied it — learned every 
brush-stroke in it. I could repaint it 
now from memory. I stayed there for 
thirty-six hours, without leaving the 
room but once. That time I went up 
to my kitchenette and got a box of bis- 
cuits. I wasn't gone more than half a 
minute and everything was just as I 
had left it when I came back. But at 
the end of the thirty-six hours — that 
was at two in the morning — my endur- 
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divan, there in the studio, for what I 
thought would be a cat-nap. I'm a 
light sleeper. I didn't think it possible 
for anybody to get into that room with- 
out waking me instantly. I suppose I 
slept pretty hard. When I wakened it 
was ten o'clock the next morning." 

"And the portrait ?" 

"The portrait was gone. The mir- 
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in their places — even my palette and 
brushes were back on the table where 
I'd left them when I started for Etaples. 
I hadn't a thing to show — no way of 
proving to anybody except myself, 
that I hadn't dreamed the whole thing. 
Thank God, I could prove it to my- 
self ! The colors that were left on 
the palette were not the ones that had 
been on it when I went away. That I 


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am ready to swear to, unless I'm crazy. 
What is your opinion about it ? Do 
you want to call a taxi and take me 
up to Bellevue ? You haven't heard 
it all, but perhaps you've heard 

"No, I want it all," said I, "every- 
thing that you can remember — every 
detail, no matter how irrelevant it 
seems to you." 

"I rather think," said Jeffrey, "that 
what I've told you is all, so far as the 
Paris mystery goes. I'm really satis- 
fied that the adventure on the bridge 
was pure imagination and nothing else. 
In point of fact, it might have been a 

"Never mind," said I; "I want 
dreams and all." 

"Why, the night before I left Paris," 
said Jeffrey, "that was about the 
middle of March— a warm night like 
spring. I hadn't been able to sleep. 
About four o'clock in the morning I 
dressed and went out, wandering 
around. It must have been about five 
when I brought up on the Pont Royal. 
The air was very thick with mist. I 
had on a rain-coat, I remember, in- 
stead of an overcoat, and the steam in 
that warm air condensed and trickled 
down as if it had really been raining. 
It was a lovely sight, really. There 
was a fag-end of a moon trying to 
light up the mist and it made every 
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silver—the flat decks of the barges in 
the river. It was all very restful and 

"I seemed to have the world to my- 
self for a few minutes; but very soon 
a woman came along, stopped, and 
leaned against the rail close beside me. 
I supposed she was some one who had 
marked me as possible game and had 
been following along, waiting for a 
good chance to speak to me. I was 
about to move away when I noticed 
that she seemed perfectly unconscious 
of my presence. I couldn't see her 
face at all, just a shape. Shewas all 
wrapped up in one of those rain-proof 
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her head. 

"She stayed there a long time star- 
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just as I had been doing before she 
came. The funny thing was that her 
being there made me uncomfortable. 
It was a little bit like a nightmare — ■ 
perhaps it really was a nightmare — • 
because I wanted to go away and I 
couldn't. I didn't want to speak to 
her and yet it seemed that I must. 

"Presently I heard footsteps and 
that seemed to break the spell a little. 
They were coming from behind me, so 
I turned to look. They were a couple 
of gendarmes tramping along on their 
route. I heard a little movement be- 
side me and turned to look at the girl. 
The sound had attracted her attention 

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riVE^Ei I rial I^OUpOn WilsonBIdB.. Toronto. Ont.. Canada 

Please send the "Easy Form Music Method" and 100 pieces of music for 7-day free trial as per terms of this 


Number of keys on piano or organ? Do you play old-style note music? 

Name Address 


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too. She was looking in my direction, 
but wasn't looking at me at all — just 
in the direction of the sound — and the 
hood had fallen from her head and 
— well, she was the girl of the portrait, 
the ghost girl. 

"I felt then as if I'd known it was 
she from the moment I saw her stand- 
ing there. She didn't make a sound, 
but her eyes widened a little as the 
gendarmes came nearer and she turned 
and fled, vanishing in the mist. When 
they came opposite me they slowed 
down and looked at me a bit curiously 
and passed on. They didn't pay any 
attention to the girl. I suppose the ex- 
planation is that I fell asleep there on 
the bridge and dreamed about the girl, 
as I often did dream about her, and 
that the coming of the gendarmes 
waked me up." 

"Well," said I, "let us be thankful 
for a reasonable explanation where we 
can get one. Undoubtedly that is the 
explanation in this case." 

Jeffrey drew a long, unsteady 
breath. "I wish I could say 'undoubt- 
edly' in that tone of voice about any- 
thing. Drew, people can talk all they 
like about the tortures of the Inquisi- 
tion and so on, but the most exquisite 
torture in the world is a doubt about 
the validity of your own observations. 
That's the thing that's driving me — : 
pretty near crazy. I can't trust my 
own sense any more." 

To be continued. 

In the Forefront 

Continued from page 35. 

want to be interviewed, but if there is 
anything I can do for you financially 
or otherwise, why you have but to 
ask— " 

"Mr. Burns," interrupted the scrib- 
bler with emphasis, "this interview 
means more to me than an inside tip 
on the stock market. I have had men 
beg me to give them just a little 
publicity, but never before have I met 
a man that honestly didn't want it." 

"Why should I want to ? Look at 
those books," and Mr. Burns pointed 
to four shelves piled with books and 
magazines, "everyone of them con- 
tains something about me and some 
day when I get time I will read one or 
tw^o of them," said the cattle king 

"Well, thanks very much, Mr. Burns, 
for the interview," the reporter was 

"Oh, that's all right. Don't men- 
tion it. Any time, young man, you 
want to talk beef come over and see 
■me. I will always be glad to hear you 
discuss it," and the cattle king smiled 
his adieu. 

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Give him a watch which combines 
"business sense" with the social graces 


The watch which finds the surest welcome today is the 
thin watch — the refined, slender, artistic timepiece which is 
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Such a watch is the Waltham "Opera" Watch. It has 
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BOOKS will be the most- 
generally-given Christmas 
gifts this year. Every- 
thing points to it and for 
good reasons. 

They are reasonable in 
price— a mighty big fea- 
ture this year 
They are usually British- 

They fill the bill as gifts 
in every way. 

Here is a list of new novels which 
everyone will be reading within a 
few months, any one of which will 
make an acceptable gift: 

Innocent: Her Fancy and 

His Fact - • - $1.25 

Quinneys • - - $1.25 

The Call of the East - $1.25 

The Honorable Percival $1.00 

Clark's Field - $1.35 


His Official Financee • $1.25 

The Witch ■ - $1.50 


The Clarion - - $1.25 


Ariadne of Allan Water $1.25 


Henry of Navarre, Ohio $1.00 

See these at your Bookseller's 


William Briggs 


29-37 Richmond Street West 


The Pedlars Pack 

Continued from page 40. 

the woodland on its wandering mission 
of propagation. "There is no death; 
what seems so is transition." The 
little creatures that are preparing to 
hibernate; those millions of dormant l!j 
forces that lie in the womb of the|i: 
earth waiting till the call of the young f- 
year brings them forth again, are sleep- ^ 
ing, not dead. So, mayhap, is it with ^ 
our lost ones. What seems death is 

I see them, the radiant sisters. Sum- 
mer and Autumn, standing with locked 
hands in the glory of the rich day upon 
the hill yonder. Soft hangs the mist 
over the brow of the earth. Peaceful 
lie the wide plains under the gracious 
sunshine. The flame is dying from 
the woods, as the leaves drop slowly, 
softly. For a moment the glory lin- 
gers. Summer, with a parting glance, 
steps swiftly adown the hill, and is lost 
in the brooding mist. Slowly, with 
reluctant feet, tawny Autumn follows, 
moving gently with many a backward 
look. A chill falls over the graying 
world. Who is it that comes striding 
across the hills, with resonant foot- 
steps, turning the violet mist to ice with 
the breath of his nostrils ? 

"There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door." 


T^ID I say Mr. Puddlebox ? Do you 
^-^ want to laugh ? — to be happy ? 
Then get acquainted with this dear, 
this lovable, this very gallant tramp. 
Perhaps you know Neil Lyons and 
"Cottage Pie"? No? Alas! I 
grieve with you. Mr. Puddlebox, like 
Sam Weller, is in a book— but he is 
greater than Sam in this that he laid 
down his life for a brother. The name 
of the book ? Why, "The Clean 
Heart," by A. S. M. Hutchinson (Mc- 
Clelland, Goodchild & Stewart, Tor- 
onto.) Suppose we talk about it from 
the reader's outlook — not the critic's. 
I opened it in the middle, one night 
when sleep had flown, and before two 
minutes reading I was glad that most 
necessary official was on leave. And 
"What !" said I, like old George IV. 
"What ! What !" For I had met 

There will be many pages, son, 
where you will laugh mightily with 
Mr. Puddlebox, but there will be some 
where you may not be able to see for 
fog — the fog and mist along the Corn- 
wall coast. 

Poignant and tender and Christlike 
is the end of Puddlebox, the tramp and 
the outcast and God's good man. I 
can but end with his cry, the cry of 
the poor, drowning tramp who shrank 

That's what you 

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Wbolesaio from Antexema Co., CftStJe Laborfttory, 
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The Painless Dru^less 


Are you run down? Has diaeaae Bapped your 
vitality ? Throw off thi» worn-out fe*linic and 
regain robust health by use of Oxydonor. 


"Oxydonor has never failed me. Have had a double 
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177 Caroline St., North, 
Jan 16th. 1912. Hamillon. Onl. 

After having an Oxydonor in my house for over 
six years, 1 vtonld not part vjith it for any money if 
I could not grl another." MRS. E. S. GIBSON, 
Jan 26./1. 1913. Toronto, Ont. 

Thousands of such letters have been received by 
Dr. Sanche. 

Beware of fraudulent imitations. The tenuin* 
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Dr. H. Sanche & Co. Dept. 83, 
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terrified in the face of fearful and 
lonely Death: 

"O ye sea of the Lord, bless ye the 
Lord: Praise Him and magnify Him 
forever !" 


Good -by &, Toronto 

Continued from page 38. 

long lines of khaki-clad figures march- 
ing in service array along the road 
from the big camp to Quebec, where 
the transports lay, tied up ready to be 
filled with their human freight and 
the accompanying stores. 

If you had stood on the wide ter- 
race, you would have looked in vain 
at first for a sign of the ships, then 
slowly your eyes would have grown 
accustomed to the outlines at the 
wharves, and one by one, long grey 
shapes would have loomed up, until 
you had counted two, three, seven, 
ten, of these phantom vessels. 

The huge battleship bearing the 
admiral of the fleet which convoyed the 
transports across, stood like a giant 
sentinel, clad in the same ghostly grey. 
Another of the largest vessels in port 
was banked up with a high wall of new 
boards shining in the sun — the trans- 
port for all the splendid horses which 
were being taken down to the water 

The vision of khaki-clad figures has 
passed for the moment, and while you 
gaze fascinated at those motionless 
grey vessels, nestled under the over- 
shadowing cliff and the frowning cita- 
del, one by one they begin to steal 
slowly away with not a sound, not a 
whistle, not the creak of a chain nor 
the groan of a plank, not even a puff 
of smoke to indicate that they are 
really living, moving things. They 
slip out from beneath the shadows and 
like huge grey moths, float silently 
down to the mouth of the river. 

Hour by hour passes and still, in 
perfect silence, the grey transports 
are moving phantom-like, into the 
stream. And far into the night, with- 
out a single sound to break the still- 
ness, they are loading up their men 
and creeping away with only a pin- 
point of light looming out against the 
black bulk of the Island of Orleans, 
shadowy against the water. At day- 
break all are gone — without a cheer, 
without a whistle, without any of the 
firing and jubilation which used to 
mark the embarkation of troops — like 
grey mists into the darkness, to be 
met in the Gulf by a cloud of other 
grey mists, equally silent. 



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Lagtmg ^^^aterp^|O0f \j^lx5^^^^ Varhish 

Wisdom has an uphill fight against 
the bHssfulness of ignorance. 

When Pan's Went 
to War 

Continued from page 27. 

me that in two days it might be im- 
possible to get bread or meat, as supplies 
of every kind would be taken by the 
government for the provisioning of 
the troops and of Paris. 

By this time there was a procession 
of flying taxi-cabs coming from Paris, 
all loaded down with boxes and bags. 

and bundles, and now and then a child's 
bed with the mattress flopping on the 
top of the canopy, wild-eyed mothers 
and scared children wedged in wher- 
ever there was space. Trains to Paris 
were already forbidden to civilians; 
suburban trams had stopped running. 
Paris was as inaccesible as if she were 
the other side of the world, until late 
in the afternoon, when I found a Paris 
cabby returning after depositing some 
refugees in the country, who con- 
descendingly agreed to take me and 



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Works and Executive 







my three small pieces of hand luggage • 
to Paris for fifteen francs ($3). 

Exactly five times the regular taxi- 
meter rates, as I discovered later, but 
need must when snecessity drives, 
and I started off — to the Great 
Unknown. For so far as I then knew, 
not one friend remained in Paris, to 
whom I could go for advice or assist- 
ance, should the worst eventually 
come. At that time, there were no 
boats between French ports and Eng- 
lish, no transatlantic service from 
either country, scarcely any hope that 
there would be until the war was over. 
That drive from Enghien-les-Bains 
to Paris is one of the many unforget- 
able experiences of these early days of 
warfare. It was a glorious sunshiny 
day, with a silver haze in the distance, 
the sky a deep blue, the clouds of 
purest white, all the greens of trees 
and meadows most vivid, and soon 
at every turn, every open vista, the 
height of Old Montmartre, crowned 
by the beautiful cathedral of Sacre 
Coeur, making in its ensemble of 
composition, architecture, color and 
atmosphere, a scene to which only 
Turner could do justice. And through 
all this peace and beauty, the discord- 
ant note of panic-stricken refugees 
flying from danger that they feared, to 
a safety that was based merely on 
hope. Yet in spite of these, it was a 
route strangely deserted to one familiar 
with the holiday crowds of a Sunday 
in France, especially a perfect summer 
day such as this. Tram lines were 
but unused rails; not a vehicle was 
abroad with groups of merry-makers, 
for already every horse, every cart 
had become, automatically, the prop- 
erty of the government. Presently, 
along came a company of cuirassiers, 
in glittering breastplates and helmets, 
and farther on, in the shadow of the 
ancient basilica of St. Denis, where 
long lines of kings of France have been 
buried, and others crowned, a bugler 
was sounding his call. 

Hotels in the Champs Elysees — or 
tourist — section were inadvisable, I 
knew , for stiff rates would be much stifTer 
— some, indeed, raised prices five times 
those charged even during the season 
of tourist travel — but through a student 
club for women in the schools quarter, 
I found a little French hotel within a 
stone's throw of the Sorbonne, and 
almost in the shadow of the Pantheon, 
simple to austerity in its appointments, 
bourgeois in every detail, but kept by 
people with hearts of gold. 

Monday, sensation succeeded sen- 
sation. First, in crossing the Place 
du Parvis Notre Dame, I looked up 
mechanically at the windows of the 
studio of some artist friends, whom I 
had supposed were safely settled in the 
country far from trouble, and to my 
surprise, found them open. Mounting 

A 25-cent Size 

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Some Do- 

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Matchless in Taste and Aroma 

Quaker Oats comes in big flakes, made only from the plump and 
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lOc and 25c per Package 
Except in Far West 




MtMBtR or 


Model 80 
f. o. b. Hamilton, Ontario 

Every Advanced Feature 
But no Advance in Price 

•I The new Overland has one of the most advanced and most 

admired body designs of the season. 

^ The new Overland has a larger tonneau. 

•H The new Overland has the most advanced and most practical 

type of underslung rear springs. 

^ The new Overland has the most advanced electric lighting and 

electric starting system. 

•i The new Overland has the most advanced ignition system. 

•H The new Overland has larger wheels and tires. 

Yet in spite of these and numerous other advanced and costly 
features the price has not been advanced. 

Orders are now being taken for immediate delivery. 

Motor 3S h.p. 
New full stream-line body 
Tonneau, longer and wider 
Upholstery, deeper and softer 
Windshield, rain vision, 
ventilating type, built-in 


Electric starter — Electric lights 
High-tension magneto — 
no dry cells necessary 
Thermo-syphon cooling 
Five-bearing crankshaft 
Rear axle, floating type 

Handsome catalogue on request. Please address Dept. 

Wheelbase, 114 inches 
34 inch X 4 inch tires 
Demountable rims — 1 extra 
Left-hand drive — Centre control 
Body : beautiful new Brewster 
green finish 


The Willys-Overland of Canada Limited, Hamilton, Ont. 

(Model SO) 

Model 81 Prices: 
6 Passenger Touring Car - $1135 
2 Passenger Roadster - $1066 

Model 80 Prices: 

5 Passenger Touring Car - $1425 

2 Passenger Roadster - - $1390 

4 Passenger Coupe - - $2150 

AU prices f. o. b. Hamilton, Ontario 

Model 81 Prices 
Delivery Wagon with closed 

body - - - - $1195 
Delivery Wagon with open body $1135 



the stairs, I found their plans had 
failed and that they, like myself, were 
anchored in Paris. Selfishly, I was 
glad, and what I would have done 
without them all in the trying days 
that followed, I cannot imagine. I 
had been there but a few minutes when 
Mr. M — entered somewhat out of 

"The mobs areout!"hesaid abruptly. 
"I have been dodging them all the 
morning. They are smashing all the 
Maggi Milk company's shops, all the 
German stores and restaurants and 
singing the Marseillaise — there's one 
now!" he broke off excitedly, and 
rushing to the window, we looked down 
from our height across the Seine to see 
a swirling crowd, looking scarcely 
bigger than gnats, battering their way 
into a "brasserie" across from Notre 
Dame, and when nothing was left of 
glass windows or even window frames, 
or furnishings or contents, swirling out 
again, and marching in disorderly 
lines to the centre of the square, break- 
ing out into the thrilling strains of the 
Marseillaise. There are no words 
adequate to express the effect that the 
Marseillaise has at such a time as this. 
It drives men wild, and turns even an 
indifferent spectator into a revolution- 
ist for the moment. There are tones 
in it that seem to be wrung from the 
very heart of a whole people. As I 
left, Mr. M — said, 

"Keep to the broad, main streets. 
Avoid the narrow streets and all crowds 
for a day or two, until the people have 
had a chance to get over their German- 
ophobia. They would know you are 
a foreigner, and might not discover you 
weren't a German until something 
disagreeable had happened." 

So with a little half thrill I left and 
made my way along the quai to the 
famous Boulevard St. Michel — the 
"Boul' Mich' " beloved of generations 
of students. Several blocks up the 
hill, on the opposite side of the street, 
I noticed a crowd of people, but as 
they appeared to be standing quietly, 
I thought it nothing more than a crowd 
reading bulletins. Just before I came 
up to them, however, two large motor- 
cars packed full of police dashed up, 
emptied out in the twinkling of an eye, 
and charged the crowd, pushing them 
here and there with their hands — the 
Paris policeman is not allowed to carry 
even a billy, and under normal con- 
ditions is permitted merely to tell a 
man to "come along," or "move on," 
or "behave now," and in a trice the 
mob was scattering like a lot of fright- 
ened sheep. Then I saw that though 
they might have been standing quietly 
when I first saw them, it was the quiet 
of nothing left to do. That little shop, 
once so clean and attractive in its 
spotless white furnishings, was ab- 
Continued on page 69. 

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$930,000 Per Week 
Paid for HUDSON Cars 

$235,600 Paid 

by Users in One Day 

On September 15 — the day before this is 
written— dealers sold to users 152 HUDSON 
Six-40's. That is, yesterday buyers of new 
cars paid out $235,600 for HUDSONS. 

The average has long been $930,000 per 
week — because that is the limit of output. 
We are building and selling 100 per day. 
That is five times as many — five times, mark 
you — as we sold at this season last year. 
And we had no war then. Our average sales 
have more than trebled since August 1st. 

Means That Hudson s 
Rule This Field 

In July — when we brought out this new 
model — we trebled our output to cope with 
demand. Thirty days later — despite our 
best efforts — we were 4,000 cars oversold. 

We shipped by express nearly 1,000 cars 
to minimize delays. That is, unprecedented. 
But thousands of men waited weeks for this 
car when other cars were plentiful. No other 
could satisfy men who once saw this new- 
model HUDSON Six-40. 

Five-Fold Increase 
An Amazing thing 

Consider that the HUDSON has long been 
a leading car. Every model for years has 
been designed by Howard E. Coffin. He has 
brought out in these cars all his new ad- 
vances. And the demand for his models — 
long before this Six-40— gave HUDSONS 
the lead. The first HUDSON Six, inside of 
one year, made us the largest builders of six- 
cylinder cars in the world. 

Think what a car this must be — this new 

HUDSON Six-40 — to multiply this popular- 
ity by five in one year. And to do it at a 
time like this. Thmk how far it must out- 
rank all the cars that compete with it. Think 
what a tremendous api^eal it must make to 
car buyers. 

Think how it attracts — how it must excel — 
when in times like these they pay $930,000 
per week for it. And they would have paid 
more had we had the cars to deliver — as 
shown by yesterday's sales of 152 cars. 

The HUDSON Sue -40 is to-day the largest 
selling car in the world with a price above 

See the Car That Did It 
Howard E. Coffin's Best 

Go now and see this model — the car whose 
record is unmatched in the annals of this line. 
You will see a quality car sold at a price 
which is winning men by theJhousands from 
lower-grade cars. 

You will see a class car — in many respects 
the finest car of the day — sold at one-third 
what class cars used to cost. 

You will see how clever designing and 
costly materials have saved about 1,000 
pounds in weight. And in this light car — 
the lightest seven-seat car — you will see one 
of the sturdiest cars ever built. You will see 




a new-type motor which has cut down opera" 
tive cost about 30 per cent. 

You will see new beauties, new ideas in 
equipment, new comforts, new conveniences. 
You will see scores of attractions you have 
never seen before. 

They are all in this masterpiece of Howard 
E. Coffin, who has long been the leading 
American designer. This is his finished 
ideal of a car, and many count him final 

Mr. Coffin has worked for four years on 
this model, with 47 other HUDSON engi- 
neers. Part by part, they have refined to tTie 
limit every detail of the car. 

This is the acceptable proven type. This 
lightness, beauty, economy and price are new- 
day standards which men are demanding. 
And this quality — Howard E. Coffin's level 
best — is the least men will take when they 

Now is the Time 

Now is the time to pick out your new car. 
Next year's models are out now. You see 
what the field has to offer. And the best 
touring months are before you — the Indian 
Summer days. Get your new car and enjoy 

If you buy a class car, this new HUDSON 
Six-40 is the car you'll want. The exclusive 
features which have won so much favor are 
bound to appeal to you. Your dealer will 
see that you get your car promptly if we have 
to ship by express. 

Five New-Styles Bodies: 
7-Passenger Phaeton, $2,100 
3-Passenger Roadster, $2,100 
3-Passenger Cabriolet, $2,376 
4 -Passenger Coupe, $2,900 
Luxurious Limousine, $3,460 
All Models quoted above f. o. b. Detroit, 
Duty Paid. 

HUDSON MOTOR CAR COMPANY, 7932 Jefferson Ave., Detroit, Mich. 


You need 
not shake 
this bottle 


is so perfectly blended — 
there is no sediment — tlie 
last drop is i;s 
idd'cious us 
the first. 

John Labatt ''^^ London 


All "ARLINGTON COLLARS" are good, 
but our CUAUENGE BRAND Is the best 


Napoleon Wins 

Continued from page 13. 

"Why, daddy, he's a regular, sure- 
for-truly, cross-my-heart, hope-to-my- 
die fellow." 

He looked at her in affectionate won- 

"If you had all those words in your 
system, I am glad you got them out," 
said he. "Modern language is some- 
what of a shock to me, I must confess, 
but after all, it is not an unpleasurable 
shock. By the way, I formed about 
the same impression of your Pole Smith 
that you've given me. He's good to 
look at, and I've been remembering 
that wonderful grin of his all morning. 
It's like a drink of good wine." 

"He's a perfectly grand grinner; he 
invented it, I think," agreed Marjorie, 
and they went to lunch. 

That evening, just before closing 
time, Hammond looked suddenly up 
from his memoranda and snapped: 

"Bluffing, did you see about securing 
that adjoining tract of land for the 
extension of the Eureka Works ?" 

"Why— no," faltered Mr. Bluffing, 
"I haven't seen to it yet." 

"You haven't 1" roared Hammond, 
"Bluffing, I am going to pain you. I 
have threatened to myself a million 
times to fire you, and this time I am 
going to make good. Go do business 
with the cashier, and don't bother to 
come back and shake hands. Good- 
by. You'll find your hat upon its 
accustomed hook." 

That evening, after having accepted 
the angry resignation of the girl with 
the straw-colored hair, the captain 
took a train fifteen minutes earlier than 
his accustomed one, and stopped at 
the gray cottage of the Smiths' on his 
way up to his own big stone residence 
at the end of the boulexard. In answer 
to his ring a very pretty brown-haired 
girl came to the door, and Captain 
Hammond, whose heart was growing 
younger through the day's experiences, 
fairly beamed upon her. 

"My goodness me ! And you're one 
of the grown-up Smith children, too, 
aren't you ?" he said, as one just awak- 
ening to a startling discovery. 

"Yes, Captain Hammond," she re- 
plied, dimpling. "I'm June. Don't 
you remember, you used to give us 
peppermint drops ? You always had 
them in your pocket." 

"Why, so I did !" he exclaimed, de- 
lighted. "My ! I'd forgotten about 
that. I must get into the habit again. 
I'm afraid I'm growing old. Where's 
your brother ?" 

"Oh, he's up at your house playing 
tennis, I think. We were just going 
up to join them," and she looked back 
over her shoulder and smiled, as a 
chubby young fellow of about twenty- 
two strolled out hatless and saluted 









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with a flourish 7of This 
said the captain; 

the captain 

"Hello, Peters !' 
"you're a great one. I never see you 
twice with the same girl." 

"Hush !" said Billy Peters in a care- 
ful burles()ue of a confidential under- 
tone. "I don't dare encourage any 
of them too much." And he gave a 
fine imitation of a man yawning. 

"Some of these days, my boy," 
warned the captain, laughing, "you're 
going to be so hard hit that it will make 
a man of you. By the way, June, I'm 
suddenly so interested in all you young 
people that I forgot my errand. I 
understand that your brother is looking 
for a position." 

"Oh, no !" she said, beaming with 
sisterly pride, "he found one this morn- 

Then the captain, who usually tried 
to be most circumspect in the company 
of ladies, forgot himself. 

"Hell !" he said. 


Napoleon Smith had "scouted" in 
perhaps a dozen places before he found 
a good Samaritan who led him to the 
offices of Forsythe and Spencer, who 
needed a man of exactly Napoleon 
Smith's height and breadth and energy 
and grin. They called themselves pro- 
moters, did Forsythe and Spencer, al- 
though they chiefly promoted real 
estate deals and would follow a dollar 
through Hades, or until they had 
annexed it. Forsythe's hair, face, 
mustache and beard were the color of 
a dish of ice cream, and he looked up 
at one through shrewd old eyes which 
bored down through the soul to the 
pockets. He looked down through the 
soul of Napoleon Smith, but could not 
see into the pockets for a grin blocked 
the .way. 

"Yes, Mr. Smith," he quavered in 
his high-pitched and nasal voice, "we 
do need a man, but I'm afraid from 
what you tell me that you haven't had 
enough business experience." 

Young Smith did a little soul read- 
ing of his own. 

"Assuming that you are correct," he 
said, "how much money would you be 
willing to pay me ?" 

"Ten dollars a week," stated Mr. 

Napoleon grinned. Forsythe liked 
that grin; he knew it had commercial 
value, and he waited with concealed 
anxiety for the answer. 

"Ten dollars a week," repeated 
young Smith. "And what would I be 
expected to do ?" 

"Anything you're told." 

"No," decided Mr. Smith. "One 
gets more money for that. We'll say 
about twenty-five dollars, and even 
then there'd have to be reservations." 

Around the corners of Forsythe's 




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mouth there came an unfamiliar twitch, 
and after a hard struggle the corners 
turned upward. 

"I see," he said. "Well, Mr. Smith, 
suppose we leave the question of salary 
an open one. Suppose you work with 
us for two weeks. At the end of that 
time, we'll sit down and have a good 
quarrel upon the matter of pay." 

"I'll take you," said Napoleon, with 
an alacrity which almost startled the 
older man. 

"Come in and meet Mr. Spencer," 
he said, grimly. Young Smith had a 
disposition to be too cocksure of him- 
self, he feared. 

Mr. Spencer proved to be an iron- 
gray-haired man of about forty-five, 
who acknowledged the introduction to 
Mr. Smith with a grunt and dismissed 
him with another. But after the new 
employee had gone out, he said : 

"He'll do. I'd break him in on 
showing people around the Sunnyview 

So it came about that Napoleon 
Smith was put out in Sunnyview, so 
'called because it rained there in sym- 
pathy with every other spot in the 
United States, and began the Herculean 
'task of selling building lots to pro- 
spective home seekers. The first week 
he was well-nigh discouraged, for, in 
spite of all his engaging efforts and his 
pleasing personality, and even despite 
his grin, the flock of people attracted 
by the Forsythe and Spencer advertis- 
ing came and looked at the appalling 
forsakenness of the place and went 
away; and by Saturday noon he had 
only sold eight lots. 

That was not the way they put it in 
the office of Forsythe and Spencer, 

"What do you think of that Smith 
boy ?" said Forsythe, rubbing his 
bloodless old hands together. "He 
sold eight of those Sunnyview stickers. 
It's a record for that type of place. I 
never thought we could get it mov- 

"Keep him out there," advised Mr. 
Spencer sagely. "And tell him he'll 
have to do better if he's going to stay 
with us." 

A hint to that effect on the following 
Tuesday, however, set Napoleon, here- 
tofore humble, upon his defense. 

"I'm doing the best I can, and hope 
to do better," he declared. "What 
ought my sales to reach ?" 

"Well — um — not less than fifteen 
lots," stated For.sythe, his grasping 
soul leaping at the idea that Smith 
might be spurred on to that figure. 

The younger man was silent for a 
moment, looking into the beady little 
wrinkled eyes of his employer. 

"How much profit do you make on 
those lots ?" he-suddenly asked. 

Mr. Forsythe visibly winced. 

"Profits !" he exclaimed. "Um— 


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Made in London, Ontario, Canada 


Canadian Bank of Commerce 



CAPITAL $15,000,000 REST $13,500,000 

SIR EDMUND WALKER, C.V.O., LL.D.. DCL.. President 


General Manager 

V. C. BROWN. Superintendent of Central Western Branches 


Assistant General Manager 



Interest at the current rate is allowed on all deposits of $1.00 and 
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Write to-day for particulars of my 


A MAN tried to sell me a horse once. He said it was a fine horse and had nothing the 
matter with it. I wanted a fine horse, but. I didn't know anything about horses 
much And I didn't know the man very well cither. 

So I told him I wanted to try the horse for a month. He said "All right, but pay 
me first, and I'll give you back your money if the horse isn't alright." 

Well, I didn't like that. I was afraid the horse wasn't "all right" and that I might 
have to whistle for my money if I once parted with It. So 1 didn't buy the borse, 
although I wanted it badly. Now this set me thinking. 

You see, I make Washing Machines — the "1900 Gravity" Washer. 
And I said to myself, lots of people may think about me and my Washing Ma- 
chine as I thought about the horse, and about the man uho owned it. 

But I'd never know, because they wouldn't write and tell me. You see.i sell my 
Washing Machines by mail. I have sold over halfa million that way. So, thought I, 
it is only fair enough to let people try my Washing Machines for a month, brfore they 
pay for them, just as I wanted to try the horse. 

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It just drives soapy water clear through the fibres of the 
clothes like a force pump might 

So said I to myself, I will do with my "1900 Gravity*' Washer 
what I wanted the man to do with the horse. Only I won't wait for people to ask me. I'll 
offer first, and I'll make good the offer every time. 
Let me send you a "1900 Gravity" Washer on 

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Doesn't it prove that the "1900 Gravity" Washer must be all that I say it is ? 

And you can pay me out of what it saves for you. It will save its whole cost In a few 
months in wear and tear on the clothes alone And then it will save 50 to 75 cents a week 
over that on washwoman's wages. If you keep the machine after the month's trial. I'll 
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you see, Mr. Smith, it's impossible to 
tell until we're all through, on account 
of advertising expenses, cost of selling, 
and other items, to say nothing of the 
heavy investment in the site." 

The famous grin sprang into instant 
illumination, and scared the astute Mr. 
Forsythe nearly into heart disease. 

"Yes," said the owner of the grin 
with calm joy, "I met the former pro- 
prietor of that land out at Sunnyview 
just yesterday, and he told me your 
exact investment. I think, Mr. For- 
sythe, that on Saturday night I am 
going to have more salary than I have 
mentioned ; or else I may go on a com- 
mission basis." 

Napoleon walked up on the moon- 
lit Hammond porch and found Billy 
Peters comfortably located on the 
swinging seat with Miss Marjorie. 

"Come on, Pole," said Marjorie, 
moving over. "There's always room 
for one more." 

"Indeed, there's not, "declared Billy, 
moving squarely into the center of the 
remaining space. "Co away, Pole 
Smith. I'm making love," 

Napoleon regarded him for a moment 
with tolerant humor. 

"All right, Billy," he agreed. "I 

think the best thing I can do, for the 

sake of contrast, is to let you go ahead 

at it. Where's your father, Margie ?" 

"He's in the library," she replied, 

laughing as he had done, at Billy 

Peters' drawling avowal. "But come 

back soon, won't you, for Billy's an 

awful fluffer at his chosen specialty." 

As he walked away, Marjorie looked 

after his tall figure with appreciation. 

"Isn't he a certainly fellow ?" she 


"Declared irregular," announced 
I3illy cheerfully. "Against the rules to 
ask any smitten swain to praise the 
deadly rival." 

"Billy, Billy," she laughed. "Don't 
you ever think of anything serious ?" 
In the meantime. Napoleon sought 
the library where Captain Hammond, 
then poring over his plans for the 
extension of the Eureka Iron Mills 
arose instantly with a smile of pleasure 
and extended his hand. 

"Well, Pole," he said, unconsciously 
adopting his daughter's name for 
young Smith, "you got away from me. 
i made a job for you the very day you 
asked for it, and I've had a Dickens 
of a time to fill the vacancy." 
"I couldn't wait," explained Pole. 
"How do you like your new place ?' 
went on the captain, offering him a 

"Oh, it's interesting, though I'm not 
sure I'd like it for a life occupation. 
I'm learning something, I think; sales- 
manship principally. There's one 
queer thing I've noticed. It's won- 
derful how much business can be done 
on a small amount of ready money. 


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I find Forsythe and Spencer are swing- 
ing that whole Sunnyview deal on an 
initial cash payment of a thousand 
dollars, mortgage notes for the bal- 
ance. They bought in the land at two 
hundred dollars an acre, and are selling 
it out in building lots at two thousand. 
They do a big business in options, too, 
I've found, and they make a dollar go 
farther than I'd ever dreamed it could 

"You've only known the spending 
dollars," returned the captain with a 
smile. "A single, ordinary, spending 
dollar is of no more use than a safety 
razor at a colored picnic, but a business 
dollar has no time for foolishness. It 
works twenty-five hours a day. It's 
as serious as an old maid's wedding. 
I'd like to see you succeed, Smith. 
To do that you've got to appreciate 
that there's no sentiment or friendship 
in business. If there is, the business 
fails. Remember that, will you ?" 

"I'm not likely to forget it," replied 
Napoleon seriously. "It was because 
of such lovable weaknesses that my 
father failed." 

"Yes," admitted the captain. "Your 
father always was a sentimentalist, 
and he lost many a good opportunity 
through it. I beat him out myself 
once in a business deal, just because 
of that." 

"You did, eh ?" said young Smith, 
his brows contracting a trifle. 

"Oh, it was a fair and a square 
arrangement, where one of us had just 
as good a chance as the other, only I 
was less particular than he in taking 
advantage when I saw it. We parted 
good friends enough." 

"Yes, father always was charitably 

"Charitably the devil !" exclaimed 
the captain. "There was nothing of 
the sort needed in that or any other 
deal. The sooner you get out of your 
head, young man, that money has 
any emotions, the better off you'll be." 
"I see," said Napoleon dryly. 
"The quicker you see, the better," 
insisted the captain, dwelling upon the 
subject so strongly that one might 
think he had really almost need to de- 
fend himself. "Where would I have 
been if I had stopped for such con- 
siderations ? As it is, I built the 
Eureka Iron Mills out of nothing — a 
little bit of a sixteen by twenty shop, 
where we made plain castings— to its 
present twenty-acre spread. Not 
only that, but we must have more 
room, large additions, too, right away. 
There's success for you. We need 
twenty acres more in which to spread, 
which means — By Hokey !" and the 
captain pounded his fist on the table, 
irritated by a sudden thought. "I left 
the matter of securing that property 
to young Bluffing, then I fired him and 
haven't turned over the job to any- 

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LOvcrilie AtuK'sby railaTidthrott!,'li the rnnania Canal , 

RUSK (& DANIELS, general agents 
.fllSl'rudiicc ExcliP'>j;c, N. Y., or Local Agents 






Soo Xine 
JYew Steel 


r y/yJF 





STEEL ^ / yi 


. TO 





MINNEAPOLIS *° 1 duluth 





). C. PETERSON. General Agent, H. P. WENTE, District Passenger Agent 

J. E. DOUGHERTY, Travelling Agent, 222 Baanatyne Ave., WINNIPEG, MAN. 


W. R. SHELDON, D.F. and P.A., 205 El?hth A79., Wwt. Calgary, Alte.; J. H. MDRTAnOH, 

Tr«T. Ft and Pas. Agt., Agency Bldg., BdmoatOQ, Alta. ; H. T. DOFFY, T.A., Moose Jaw, Sask. 


cMA.CrP\.G^a '..m^_/yi<\ L w>=».u kSE,,e-=-^c?utii;r^*r^Aj.>p,t,Rjj3,Ru^ 



body else. I must see to it to-morrow. 
I'm growing neglectful in my old age." 
"I suppose you have plenty of room 
in which to spread ?" observed the 
younger man politely. 

"No, that's the dickens of it," said 
the captain. "We haven't. There 
are only two pieces of land available, 
and only one of them desirable." 

"Where is your plant ?" asked young 
Smith with growing interest. 

"Out on the Cedarpong Division of 
the L. & I., at Hammondville. You 
ought to go out some day and see the 

"Hammondville ! Why, I pass the 
Hammondville station every day on 
my way to the Sunnyview addition, 
but I never noticed your plant." 

"No, we haven't the business ad- 
vantages that we ought to have," 
admitted the captain; "I'm thinking 
of cutting away the sand ridge which 
shuts ofT the view of our factory from 
the railroad." 

Just then the telephone bell rang, 
and the call proved to be for young 
Smith. Excusing himself from the 
captain, who seemed reluctant to let 
him go, Napoleon walked out on the 

"For whom was the call ?" asked 

"For me, of course," declared Billy 
Peters. "I'll gamble it was some one 
of the girls calling me up. They're 
always bothering arourrd me." 

"No," said Napoleon abstractedly, 
thinking upon other matters so deeply 
that he had not time to reply to Billy 
Peters in his own banter. "The call 
was for me. It's from June. She 
wants me to come down and get her," 
and he started toward the gate. 

"Just what I told you," said Billy 
triumphantly. "I wish your sister 
would quit following me around. You 
ought to speak to her about it, Pole. 
But never mind; you stay here, and 
I'll go ahead. You may try to make 
love to Margie while I am gone." 

"Trying to make love to Margie is 
rather a bromide," said Napoleon. 
"Everybody has the same idea." 
Nevertheless, he sat down most com- 
fortably and contentedly by Marjorie's 
side, and allowed Billy Peters to stroll 
negligently after his sister. 
Hammondville consisted of a sta- 
[ tion and three streets of well-populated 
[workmen's cottages. Beyond, reach- 
ed by a wagon road and a spur track, 
[was the Eureka plant, a low-lying col- 
I lection of brick buildings which sprawl- 
led in every direction. To the front 
I was a sand ridge; to the rear, the 
[Sound; to the east, a stretch of level 
jland; and to the west, an equal area 
iwhich, however, was one-third marsh. 
As young Smith stepped into view 
around the turn of the road, workmen 


The Genuine 
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The Greatest Marvel of the Plant World 


The Mexican Resurrection Plant is probably the most wonderful 
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TIME AND TIME AGAIN FOR YEARS. In its dormant condition 
:t can be laid away on the shelf to dry up and remain apparently lifeless, 
out at any time desired it can be revived by simply placing in water. 

The Mexican Resurrection Plant grows in the wilds of the mountains 
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As an attractive addition to the household there is nothing like it. Its 
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md as a favor for parties, etc., it is in great demand and the cause of great 
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The illustration gives only a rough idea of the plant when dormam 
md when resurrected; it can give no idea of its beautiful rich color and 
-ittractive appearance, and an average plant when open will more than fill 
a saucer. 

IN CANADA, 25c. 


Dealers write for wholesale prices. Floral Dept, 

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Sheckletcn says: 

'•The question of the concentrated beef supply is most important 
- — it must be Bovril" 

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the f(K)d he lakes must yield every ounce of nourishment to his men. 

fXw Shackleton's example. Into a single bottle of Bovnl is packed the 
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s. ir. 11 

A Day's Record near Parry Sound 

Why Not a Hunting Trip 
This Fall? 



Still abound with all kinds of Game 

Get Out Your Rifle 

And go to any of those places— you are sure of a good bag] 

Why not write to-day for "Fishing and Shooting/' giving full particulars 

including names of Guides, etc., obtainable from any 
Canadian Pacific Agent, or C. E. E. USSHER, Passenger Traffic Manager, 

Montreal, Que. 

were removing the "for sale or lease" 
sign from the better tract, iind Napo- 
leon stopped to look Ufwn this opera- 
tion with a trace of annoyance. 

"Quick work," he said. Then he 
approached the workmen. "Who's 
bought this place ?" he asked. "Cap- 
tain Hammond ?'* 

"I couldn't tell you, sir," said the 
older mofi of the crew. "Mr. Panz 
told us to move the sign over to 

Panz was the real estate agent whose 
name was on the board, and with a sigh 
Napoleon saw he had been correct in 
his surmise; that ^he captain had 
taken extraordinarily prompt action. 
"A fool's errand," he told himself; 
and yet there caJne to him a sudden 
determination never to arrive at any 
conclusion without investigation, but 
in each and every case to sift his facts 
to the bottom. He hurried back to 
the station, where there was a public 
'phone, and called up Panz's office. 

"I understand you have a tract of 
land for sale at Hammondville," he 
observed. ,, 

"I couldn't tell you about that,^ 
said the clerk at the other end. "Who's- 
this speaking ?" , 

"Smith, of Forsythe and Spencers 

office." . . , 

"Oh, ! I'll find out about it right 

away, Mr. Smith." Then a moment 

later: "We no longer have control of 

that tract. It was sold yesterday."* 

"To whom ?" 

"To the Consolidated Hame-nng 
Manufacturing Company, which we 
understand intends to erect an exten- 
sive plant there." 

"Good," said Smith. "Thank you, 
and he rang off. _ 

So, after all, the captain, through his 
forgetfulness, had lost the most desir- 
able piece of extension property, and 
there remained only the marshy 

"Who owns that piece of property 
to the west of the Eureka Iron Mills ?' 
he asked the station agent. 

"Mrs. McGundy," said the lantern 
jawed station agent, scraping his fingei 
nail tenderly over his nose. Sh( 
lives in that sky-blue house just to thi 
end of the frog pond. Her husbam 
has been dead for ten years, and sb 
wants to go back to Ireland. She s i 
good-natured fat old woman with ai 
awful temper." 

These and many other bits of intoi 
marion the station agent proceeded t 
relate, all the while, however, scrapm 
his finger nail tenderiy over his nos€ 
and Napoleon Smith listened mos 
patiently, for he wished to know a 
that he could learn about Mrs. M( 
Gundy. Finallv, however, the st£ 
tion agent switched to topics concert 
ing himself and his own family and h 
past career and future prospects, an 



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You may be puzzled to know 
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We are experts in remodel- 
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can be promptly supplied. 


194 Dundas Street, 


American Style 


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Napoleon hurried away to the little 
blue house, where he found Mrs. Mc- 
Gundy to be a globular person cut 
into two hemispheres by an apron 

"Mrs. McGundy," queried Napo- 
leon, "do you wish to sell your land 
out here ?" 

"Show me the man that will buy it!" 
said she, and having no more oppor- 
tunities to talk than the lonely station 
agent she started right in to make up 
for lost time. "I surely could part 
with it without breaking my heart. 
Twenty years ago, when Jim bought 
it for a song, it was supposed that if 
we held on to it for twenty years it 
would be worth all the money in the 
mint, but in all that time never have 
I seen the man that would ever be 
wanting that land, unless it would be 
Captain Hammond. But he don't 
want it. Twice I have gone myself 
to sell it to him, and twice he gave me 
to understand that if he bought any 
land it would be the other piece. Last 
time he made me desperate angry, 
and I swore I never would sell it to 
him. You're not representing Cap- 
tain Hammond ?" 

"No," said Napoleon briskly, "I 
am representing myself. What will 
you take for the land ?" 

"Well, there's twenty acres, and 
it's worth, Jim always said, two hun- 
dred dollars an acre. That's four 
thousand dollars. Give me that and 
I'll take the next steamer for Dublin." 

"I can't give you the four thousand 
cash," said Smith, "but I'll give you 
one thousand cash, and a mortgage 
note on the balance, payable in sixty 
days. You can wait the two months 
for the collection of that note, or you 
can probably discount it." 

"Let me understand that," said Mrs. 

He carefully explained to her about 
the mortgage note, and with each 
period she nodded her round gray head 

"It sounds well," she said, "and you 
seem like an honest boy. But before 
I say aye, yes, or no, I'll go in and see 
Mr. McShane of McShane and Mc- 
Shane, who was my husband's old 
friend; and whatever he says, I'll do. 
Do you know Mr. McShane ?" 

Mr. Smith was unfortunate enough 
never to have had that pleasure, and 
he expressed himself contritely about it. 

"What time does the next train go ?" 
he wanted to know. "Can you come 
to town with me right now ?" 

Mrs. McGundy looked him over 
carefully, and glanced at the clock. 

"Lord love you, boy !" she said. 
"What a ragin' tearin' hurry you're 
in ! Oh, well, it's been many a long 
day since I took a jaunting with a 
handsome-looking young fellow like 
yourself, and T think I'll treat myself 




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articles of furni- 
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room in a dwelling 
should at least har- 
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e Clifford Street 

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One 0} the best stores in your locality can 

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to it just this once. There's a train 
goes in about twenty minutes. Do 
you go down to the station and wait, 
and in due time I'll come along with 
my best bib and tucker on." 

Napoleon lost no time in getting 
down to the station, and lost no time, 
furthermore, in calling Captain Ham- 
mond by 'phone. 

"This is young Smith, Captain 
Hammond," said he. "I _ want to 
borrow a thousand dollars." 

"Oh, you do ?" inquired the captain. 
"On what security ?" 


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because it is so harmless and safe 
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contains no acids or minerals. 



is needed daily in and about the 
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Absorbine, Jr., wherever a high-grade 
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To reduce inflammatory conditions- 
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To reduce bursal enlargements and infil- 
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Absorbine, Jr., is con- 
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Absorbine, Jr., $1.00 and 
$2.00 a bottle at most 
druggists or postpaid. 

A Liberal Trial Bottle 

will be sent postpaid to 
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of 10c in stamps. Send 
for trial bottle or procure 
regular size from your 
druggist to-day. 


W^' '■»"•■'(•. tr.U'f:i C'»^"; NL' 


W. F. YOUNG, P. 0. F. 

612 Lyman's Bldg., 
Montreal, Canada. 

Mark your linen with 



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$1.25 for 6 doi.. 86c. for 3 doz., duty paid. These mark- 
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"Mortgage on our house," returned 
Napoleon crisply. 

"When do you want it ?" 

"Within an hour or so. Captain, I 
want you to let me have the check this 
morning and let me fix up the mort- 
gage with you to-morrow." 

"It isn't business, but I'll do it," 
agreed the captain after some hesita- 
tion. "But would you mind telling 
me what you want it for ?" 

"Oh, I have a little real estate oppor- 

The captain pondered a moment. 

"You want to be careful about that," 
he warned. "Real estate deals are 
not always what they appear on the 
surface. " 

Napoleon Smith grinned sweetly 
into the 'phone. 

"I'll guarantee this one to be all 
right," he confidently affirmed. "It's 
a piece of property that's wanted, and 
I'll clean up two thousand dollars on 
it in less than a week." 

"All right," said the captain. "Of 
course I am not your guardian, and 
you're not compelled to tell me all the 
details of your business, only I warn 
you not to do anything foolish. Come 
into the office and get your check at 
any time." 

Napoleon grinned so amiably as he 
turned away from the 'phone that the 
station agent, coming in at that mo- 
ment, demanded to know what was 
funny; and the agent stood looking 
after him in slow wonder even after 
Smith had taken the train with Mrs. 
McGundy, who was dressed her brav- 
est in a little black bonnet and Persian 
shawl and silk as stiff as sheet iron. 

On the way to McShane and Mc- 
Shane Napoleon had Mrs. McGundy 
stop a moment in the lobby of the 
Kingston Building while he ran up to 
Captain Hammond's office and got 
his check. Still on the way, he stop- 
ped and deposited that check at the 
bank where he had a small account, 
and then was ready for business. The 
broad-boned old lawyer would have 
made the deal pompous and difficult 
had he been left alone, but Mrs. Mc- 
Gundy stopped him as soon as she 
saw his direction. 

"Stop your blatherin' and foolin' 

now, Terrance," she commanded. 

"Hurry up and finish the business with 

this young man. I like the cheerful 

■ face of him." 

After that, Napoleon went out to 
Sunnyview and sold lots with par- 
ticular vim and energy. 

Mr. P'orsythe, having sent for his 
new assistant in extreme haste in the 
afternoon of the same day, peered up 
at that young man with something 
tigerish in the expression of his white 
old face. 

"I understand that you secured 



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on the 




possession of a tract of land in Ham- 
mondville," said he, "and that you 
only purchased it this morning." 

Napoleon grinned cheerfully. 

"All quite true," he confessed. 

"Don't you know that was most 
unethical ?" demanded Mr. Forsythe. 
"Why, in our employ, and upon 
our time, you took occasion to do 
some private business for yourself in 
our exact line !" 

"Yes, sir," admitted Mr. Smith, 
with no abatement of his pleasant 



expression. "How do you come to 
know about it ?" 

"Because Mr. Hammond called us 
up early this morning and commis- 
sioned us to buy that very piece of 
ground for him." 

This time the grin of Napoleon 
became a laugh. 

"That's almost retributive justice," 
he said. "I suppose Captain Ham- 
mond gave you the commission be- 
cause I was employed here." 

"Well, he did say something about 
that," admitted Forsythe grudgingly. 
"But the poinj; under consideration 
just now is that you have been doing 
business on your own account, on our 
time, and in our line, which we can- 
not permit." 

The grin of Napoleon was positively 
radiant now. 

"You said that before," he gently 
reminded Forsythe. "Do you think 
I ought to turn it over to you ?" 

"Well not exactly that," said Mr. 
Forsythe. "But as our employee, you 
are bound to consult our interests. 
As our employee we couldn't recog- 
nize you in this deal, but there's one 
thing we can do; we can admit you 
into partnership in this particular 
transaction. Captain Hammond has 
commissioned us to secure this piece 
of property, which he imagined could 
be purchased for four thousand dol- 
lars. You have purchased it, and I 
presume intend to sell it to him at an 
increased price. Now, we might 
arrange to fix the price between 
Forsythe and Spencer and yourself, 
and you and us split the profits." 

Napoleon paused for an extra special 

"No, I resign," he stated. "That's 
a still better scheme. Now I'll sell 
you that land for six thousand dollars, 

In vast pain Mr. Forsythe eventually 
was compelled to call up Mr. Ham- 
mond, and inform that gentleman that 
the land for his extension would cost 
him the modest sum of six thousand 

"Buy it," directed Hammond. "It's 
my own fault for not having seen to 
it a long time ago." 

"I might add," said Mr. Forsythe 
with a malignant glance at his ex- 
employee, "that the property in ques- 
tion is at present owned by young 
Smith, formerly in our employ, but 
o-day resigned." 

"Smith !" exclaimed Hammond. "Is 
he in your office now ? If he is, put 
him on the 'phone." And as Mr. 
Forsythe indicated the captain's desire 
to Napoleon, he could hear the cap- 
tain, at the other end of the wire, say- 
ing to himself: "Well, I'll be dam- 
ned !" 

"Look here," demanded the cap- 
Lain of young Smith, "did you actually 
have the nerve to borrow that thou- 




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This looks like a foolish question, but is it any more foolish than a human being wearing cotton or linen next 
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In all sizes, for Men, Women and Children 1376 


sand dollars from me this morning to 
buy the very piece of property you 
knew I wanted, so as to compel me to 
pay you a two-thousand-dollar profit 
on the loan ?" 

"That's right, Captain," admitted 
Napoleon cheerfully. 

"Well, Smith, don't you think that 
was a little ungrateful and unfriendly ? 
Don't you think you stepped over the 
bounds of both business and social 
ethics ? 

"By no means," said Napoleon. 
"You told me yourself, just the other 
night, that business knows no friend- 
ship, and that a dollar has no senti- 
ments or emotions. I want this two 
thousand dollars, and intend to have 
it. It's as unsentimental and un- 
emotional a block of money as there is 
in the world. Want this property 
at six thousand ?" 

"Of course I do, you young pirate," 
said the captain. "Tell Forsythe I'll 
send him a check for his commission, 
then you come over here and settle up 
with me. I'll have my lawyer here 
and tell him to watch you." 

"All right," laughed Napoleon. "I'll 
be right over, thank you." 

"Thank nothing !" snorted the cap- 
tain. "I ought to have you arrested." 

That night as the captain sat in the 
library, Marjorie came in to use the 
telephone, and paused behind her 
father's chair to pull his ears. 

"Who's that you have with you on 
the porch, Margie ?" he asked. 

"Pole Smith," she informed him. 
He says he made two thousand dollars 
in one deal to-day." 

"Yes, confound it, he did !" ex- 
ploded the captain. "He made it out 
of my pocket and borrowed my mone\' 
to do it with." 

Her laugh upon that was delicious; 
so much so that the captain stopped 
to listen to it in positive joy, all his 
annoyances of the day forgotten. 

"I guess I'm a lemon," he confessed, 
laughing with her. 

"A nickel's worth of them," she 
agreed, twisting two corkscrews in his 
gray hair. "I should think that a 
shrewd old business tiger like you 
would feel humiliated to have a mere 
youngster like Pole Smith come along 
and eat him all up." 

The captain smiled grimly. 

"To tell you the truth, Margie, 
that's exactly the point w-hich peeved 
your poor old father. I don't mind the 
loss of the money so much as having a 
youngster like that beat me. But in 
spite of myself, I forgive him for it. 
He's a fine chap, young Smith is." 

She slipped her arm around his neck 
and laid her cheek against his. 

"A fine chap ? Just finding it out ? 
Daddy, daddy, daddy ! You don't 
keep up with the news very well, do 
vou ?" 



Margie Fiske 

Continued from page 17. 

"Aw — kid — " he said softly, "you're 
all tired out. Look at me, why don't 
you? You're all in, Marg." 

It was the first intimate, real you- 
an'-me word she had heard since 
Beryl left. To be sure he didn't mean 
it, clear down, soul-deep. She knew 
that. But God! how good it was. 

Somehow Margery found herself 
talking — the office, the factories, the 
housekeepers, down to Miss Etta 
herself, everything came tumbling out. 
He sympathized with her fiercely, 
understandingly she thought, sympath- 
zed with her when she was right and 
when she was wrong. 

After she finished, they dropped 
into silence. 

The darkness slid deeper over the 

Suddenly he stirred. 

"What's that in your glove, kid?" 
he asked unevenly, "your key?" 

There was a change in his voice. 
Margie had all along subconsciously 
expected it. This straight human 
sympathy that Beryl might have given 
couldn't last. 

She braced herself to meet the pull, 
h\it there was no spring left. There 
had been so many Waterloos in the 
past week. 

Had she looked up above the park 
lights, up, up to the strange little 
silent stars that she used to see through 
the apple tree at home, perhaps things 
might have been different — had she 
thought of that far-off God who had 
nothing whatever to do with mottoes — 

But she was too tired. 

"Aw, say," said the man huskily, 
his arm tightening," "couldn't we go 
up to the flat and — get a cup of cocoa, 

When Paris Went 
to War 

Continued from page 5.5. 

solutely nothing but a shell. Bottles 
of milk had been smashed to bits; the 
great copper separator torn to pieces, 
like so much cloth, heedless of damage 
to fingers and hands, which dripped 
blood, while butter and eggs had been 
trampled in fury under foot. Chairs, 
desk, refrigerator, counters — all were 
reduced to splinters, and in a comer 
cowered a woman, her natty cap awry, 
her white apron torn and streaked, 
her hair dishe\eled. The crowd had 
wrecked its will, there was nothing 
for the police to do — and they did it. 
Rather roughly conducting the fainting 
woman to one of the motor-cars, all 
Jailed in. and dashed off, leaving the 

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"mob" still there, without having made 
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and arrest them. We surmised a few 
days later when strict military rule 
was inaugurated, that the authorities 
had thought it wise to permit the mobs 
a little leeway for the first few days, 
just to get the Germanophobia out of 
their systems. 

During these days, too, there was 
(jther danger from the mob spirit. 
Provision shops were attacked and 
sacked, under the charge that the 
owners had raised prices prohibitively. 

These mobs were severely handled, 
and many arrests made, while the 
episodes called out placards politely 
informing the people that it was "not 
necessary" to attack any shopkeeper 
charged with lifting prices; that a 
complaint at the nearest commissariat 
of police would have immediate in- 
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not permit any undue raising of prices 
on food stuffs. 

"We'll live on fresh things now," 
my friends said, without any hint 
of panic or fear of the future, "and 

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then if it comes to the worst, we'll get 
down to first principles — and macaroni. " 
When Paris was proclaimed in a 
state of siege and martial law announc- 
ed, foreigners were ordered to register 
and obtain a "permis de sejour," on the 
third and fourth days of mobilization. 
I know that mobilization went off like 
clockwork, but I must say that this 
matter of registration of foreigners 
was abominably slipshod. 

In time of peace, even, the French 
are over-fond of bearing down heavy 
with any little brief spell of authority. 
Under martial law, then, it behooved 
a foreigner to expect all sorts of com- 
plications, all kinds of contradictory 
instructions, all of which he must 
obey implicitly, cheerfully and without 
comment of any sort, no matter what 
the expense in fatigue or useless and 
unnecessary goings-about. First, we 
were told that we must register at the 
Prefecture of Police — across the square 
from Notre Dame. This sounded like- 
ly, as it was a stone's throw from the 
studio of the M's. and not far from 
my hotel. At the same time, it seemed 
altogether too easy to me, knowing as 
I did from long experience, the utter 
inconsequentiality of the French in an 
emergency. Before the third day of 
mobilization dawned, we had received 
word to go to the Place d'ltalie — almost 
to the western boundary of Paris, 
anything but a pleasant prospect with 
no trams in service, nor any subway 
line. But ours "not to reason why" — 
and at seven o'clock the next morning, 
Mr. M — and I arrived there — to find 
several hundred others — mostly work- 
ingmen of the lowest type, already 
waiting in three lines, two of which 
could not be right, and in case no 
police appeared to keep order, would 
be provocative of a riot. The doors 
would not opeH until nine o'clock — 
for at no time did the authorities think 
it worth while to add to_ the regular 
staffs at the various police stations, 
or to keep longer hours. We waited 
an hour, the crowd rapidly growing 
behind us, as well as at the ends of the 
other two lines, all crowding slowly, 
but relentlessly forward, like the inevit- 
able creeping up of quicksands, and as 
the crush grew worse, a certain nasty 
temper also developed. It was not 
at all reassuring, and knowing there 
was still another day, Mr. M — advised 
dropping out, and coming again the 
next morning, at four o'clock, in 
order to "get right up against the 
door" as he expressed it, and be the 
first ones admitted. 

But that evening at eight o'clock, 
Mr. M — came to say we had been 
transferred to the commissariat of my 
arrondissement, only a few minutes' 
walk distant, that the office was to 
keep open all night, and he thought 
it well to go down about midnight, and 

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then we would be able, probably, to 
get in about two o'clock in the morn- 
ing, thus avoiding a long, all day 
wait. Fortunately we decided to re- 
connoitre and discovered that the 
office would close at ten o'clock, and 
that the police would not permit any 
more to form in line. 

"You must be here by four o'clock 
to-morrow morning, sure," said Mr. 
M — as he left me at my door. "Now, 
don't oversleep." 

But, somehow I did; and it was 
twenty minutes to five when I arrived 
at the commissariat. Already there 
was a crowd there, and my place was 
seven rows from the front where Mr. 
M — stood, the lines never being 
single file, as with us, but packed 
solidly the width of the walk. Mr. 
M — decided that it would be better 
for him to keep the place he had, get 
his own "permis de sejour" first, and 
then take my place until he could get 
to the door again, for he knew well 
that I never could stand the last hour 
or so of relentless, killing crush. I 
had had coffee and rolls before leav- 
ing the hotel. I had bread in my bag 
— and I had also the determination to 
get through somehow without making 
complaint, or showing the white 
feather in any way. 

About half past six, I began to feel 
faint. I took out the unbuttered 
bread in my bag and began to munch 
it slowly. It revived me for a time 
and then Mr. M — seeing I was feeling 
the ordeal, brought me a tumbler of 
wine, which he bought from a man 
standing beside him, who had a full 
bottle. About eight o'clock, feeling 
that I was reaching my limit, with 
still another hour before the doors 
would open, and then more delay in 
getting to the door itself, I began to 
count. Very slowly and deliberately 
I pronounced the numbers; when I 
reached the hundreds, I pronounced 
the full number. I had gotten up to 
five thousand and was beginning to 
wonder what next I could do, when it 
began to rain, and I had other things 
to think of. People who had umbrel- 
las and those who by crowding closer, 
could get under them, were satisfied; 
those on whose shoulders and hats 
the umbrellas dripped, growled menac- 
ingly. At any moment, the dissatis- 
faction might have broken out into 
a general fight. There had already 
l)een various disorderly scenes, win- 
dows had been broken; in a surge for- 
ward I had been pushed to the out- 
side, into the gutter, where I slipped 
in the running water which the street 
sweeper had set loose under my very 
feet, and fell upon one knee. Not a 
hand was lifted to help me up; not an 
inch of the space that I had lost was 
given back. 

And when at last the door was 



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opened, only six from the waiting 
tiirong were permitted to enter at a 
time. It was ten-twenty before Mr. 
M — could relieve me, and my muscles 
were so strained from having stood so 
long that it was several minutes before 
1 could walk. It was exactly tvvo 
hours longer before Mr. M — again 
reached the door, and I could enter. 
With all the determination in the 
world, it would ha\o been a physical 
impossibility for me to have attempted 
to hold my place in th'at pitiless mob 

during the last hour. Tough, wiry 
Italian peasant women screamed with 
agony, and fought for a chance to 
breathe, while the tempers of the men 
rose every minute, and the police were 
kept alert to quell incipient fights. 

Including this "perirxls de sejour", 
my papers now consisted of a regular 
passport (for getting which I had been 
laughed at, when I left America) a 
birth certificate which the consul had 
given me a year before, a certificate of 
domicile from the concierge of my 



His Back 

LOOK Big Ben square 
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hotel, and on the back ni the "permis 
de sojour", the necessary form to per- 
mit my leaving France. Arid during 
all the sticceeding days, until I finally 
bought my ticket for Havre, to leave 
France, I never was required to show 
one of iny papers ! So much trouble, 
so much physical inconvenience, so 
much anxiety for measures of identifi- 
cation that were never put to the proof ! 
After the first ebullition of the mob spirit 
Paris settled downto perfect calm. In 
tourist Paris, two-thirds of the shops 
were closed, but in French Paris, life 
went on, to the casual observer, almost 
as usual. Nearly all the little shops 
were open, the women went every 
morning to market, returning with 
bursting market-baskets, and in some 
cases, even with the bunch of flowers 
of which the French are so fond. The 
street sweepers went about their oc- 
cupations as regularly as ever, swishing 
their rude brooms in the clear running 
water, as lazily as if no cataclysm had 
turned things upside down; fountains 
played at the customary hours; 
mothers took their children, as usual, 
to the gardens of the Tuileries and the 
Luxembourg, where the little ones 
indulged, quite as usual, in the little 
hot cakes baked under their noses, and 
which look like wafifles, but are light 
as thistledown and crispy as fresh 
toast, and everywhere, mothers and 
nurses sat quietly about, their fingers 
busy with the inevitable embroidery 
or crochet work. 

And yet, with all this brave show^ 
of going about its business as usual, 
it was a sadly changed Paris, a piti- 
ful travesty upon the lovely lively city 
that I had known so well. Cione were 
the hundreds of motor-busses, and 
dozens and dozens of the taxi-cabs and 
fiacres; gone were the myriad huck- 
sters' carts, piled high with appetizing 
fruits, and vegetables or aglow with 
great piles of flowers. Gone were the 
fashion parades, all frivolous dress on 
the boulevards; gone all the novelties 
from the counters in what stores were 
still open, and gone was every cart 
horse, every delivery van, and at 
night, more noticeable still, gone by 
eight o'clock, were the little tables and 
chairs on the sidewalks outside the 
cafes — all the terrace life which for 
generations has been so typically a 
part of Paris, so intimately a part of 
the life of the sedate, plodding Paris- 
ian, as well as of the "boulevardier." 

And yet, shorn of all these outward 
signs of her fabled glory, it was still a 
wonderful Paris, a Paris to be cherish- 
ed and loved and crooned over, a Paris 
of which one was proud to the point of 
tears, a Paris that one who knew it can 
never forget, a Paris that one is honor- 
ed to have known, a Paris which has 
never been greater, e\en at the zenith 
of national glory. 


NO. 2 









As Keissheitai 

From Admiral Semenoff 's, "The 
Reckoning." — "The battleship Yashima 
struck a mine on May 15, and sank the 
folloiving day on her passage to Japan. 
It was not till October that rumors reached 
Europe, and even Japan, of this inci- 
dent. It became definitely known only 
after Tsushima." 

EAST of Port Arthur and south- 
so far out in the Bay of Korea 
that only the extreme Russian 
forts topping the last Laote- 
shan mountain gave the glint of land 
as the rocks caught the rays of the 
rising sun — a single Japanese torpedo 
boat drifted. 

It was not entirely out of control. 
Smoke constantly streaked from the 
funnels as fresh coal was spread over 
the fires; but the screw scarcely turned 
— no more at any time than to save 
steerageway enough to hold the San- 
sanami's unshattered starboard bow to 
the waves dashed down by the ragged 
wind from the foam-beaten Korean 
gulf. The steam was being made for 
the pumps. For, from six feet short 
of the stem half-way to the beam, the 
port plates of the torpedo boat were 
crushed and battered in. Canvas, 
lashed over the worst of the hole, 
stayed the sea from flooding in un- 
checked as the Sansanami rolled; but 
above this leaking patch, and about it, 
and between the parted plates bent in 
below the water line, the sea rushed in. 
Too much for the pumps. With all 

Copyright. 1914, by the 

By Edwin Balmer 

Author of "Via Wireless," "Counsel 

for the Defence," "A Wild Goose 

Chase," etc. 

Drawings by Frederic M. Grant 

the opposed violence of the boilers 
■palpitating them, each moment the 
pumps barely put oH the sinking of the 
Sansanami for another moment. So it 
had gone all night, with officer and 
crew bailing alike with buckets — 
ceaseless, no man once sparing himself 
till he dropped from weakness in the 
water which he had not lowered. 

It was the morning of the 16th of 
May — the fourth month of the block- 
ade of Port Arthur by .sea. At the 
mouth of the Yalu, two hundred miles 
to the north, the first battle for the 
Manchurian mainland was over. For 
more than two weeks the honored 
spirits of the Japanese soldiers who fell 
in the assaults there had dwelt in the 
Temple of Kudan; already, from some 
of the regiments, names of those 
imperishable ones had begun to reach 
their brothers in the fleet. 


Kuroki, with the first army, was 
established in Manchuria. But the 
second army, under Oku, was but dis- 
embarking upon the peninsula for the 
siege of Port Arthur In the treacher- 
ous, gale-swept inlet of Yenta-ao, just 
beyond the guns of the Russian posi- 
tion at Nanshan, and not thirty ri by 
sea from Port Arthur, the Japanese 
transports tore at their anchors. The 
two miles of wild, roaring water be- 
tween troop-ships and shore daily were 
strung with overloaded, shrieking 
launches, half-swamped sampans, and 
ships' boats tumbling the soldiers 
toward the land. 

But a few miles further up the beach 
were the Japanese army base and sup- 
plies at Pitsevo. 

All these — and all that these prom- 
ised — therefore lay at any hour at 
the mercy of the Russian battle-fleet at 
Port Arthur, if Togo's guard should 
fail. All these and more — the victori- 
ous corps on the Yalu, as surely as the 
brigades in camp upon the peninsula — 
were equally subject, if the Russian 
ships should give battle now and, with 
fortune, could cripple Togo's fleet. 

So never was there a dawn upon 
which the Admiral had such need to 
expect that every man and every ship 
was fit for its duty, as upon this sunrise 
which found the Sansiinami all but 
sunk from its commander's unwarrant- 
able act. 

It was, indeed, the atom of the fleet 
— the smallest armed vessel under the 
Admiral's command. Except for the 

All rights reserved. 81 


hulks which dragged for mines, and the 
hulls to be sunk to block the channel, 
the Sansanami probably better could 
be lost than any other ship. 

It was nineteen years since she was 
bought in England, and got the name 
and rating, "Sansanami, torpedo-boat 
of the first class." It was ten years 
ago — the year before the Chinese war — 
that already the Sansanami had be- 
come "of the second class"; and its 
name began slipping from it upon the 
navy records. For it was now six 
years that, officially, the quivering 
quarter-inch plates at the stern had 
borne but a number; since the Navy 
Yards charged repairs and refitting to 
"third-class torpedo boat No. 108"; 
and since a sub-lieutenant, with a 
torpedo-gunner second, was fixed as 
sufficient command. 

Therefore the loss of the Sansanami 
cculd not: even at this moment, be of 
much concern. But to the drenched, 
haggard men, fighting back the sea 
with buckets, the saving of the ship 
meant more than life; and to young 
sub-lieutenant Yasui, upon the bridge 
— the boy responsible, in command — 
it meant, beyond life, his whole hope 
for imperishable honor, his destiny 
with his forefathers for eternity. 

From the beginning of the blockade, 
both Russian and Japanese had been 
planting contact mines thickly about 
the harbour entrance. Those of the 
Japanese had blown up and sunk the 
Russian battle ship Petropavlosk the 
month before. But the Russian anch- 
ored mines had accounted for but 
unimportant gunboats of the Japanese 
fleet. So for weeks their mine-layers 
had been sowing mines at night on the 
bottom where the watching battle- 
ships and cruisers steamed back and 
forth at their stations; other mines — 
ugly, iron monsters, floating just below 
the surface of the sea with only their 
five-spiked heads showing at the sur- 
face — were strewed so as to drift out 
anywhere where the Japanese ships 
might encounter them. 

The order had gone to the torpedo- 
fleet to destroy these, wherever found. 
Through over-eagerness in destroying 
these floating mines, sub-lieutenant 
Yasui brought the Sansanami too close 
to one, which he exploded. 

Immediately he had ordered the 
screw all but stopped, the pumps 
started. Strong Takesaburo, the 
stoker — the best swimmer and diver — • 
took a rope in his teeth and twice dove 
with it and carried it under the sinking 
stem so that canvas could be drawn 
over the gap and secured. 

Thus officer and men fought it out 
alone, through the afternoon and night, 
beseeching the spirits of the gale which 
so often died down with the dawn to 
spare, not them, but the Sansanami at 


So the boy upOn the tiny bridge, 
searching the white waves for a sign, 
rushed below to tell his men: 

"The wind is becoming less!" 

"My commander," said old Majuka, 
his torpedo gunner, "are we so poor in 
spirit you must spur us?" 

The sailor beyond him likewise man- 
aged a smile. "Lieutenant, have you 
begun to have fear for the sinews of the 

Yasui returned to his bridge. He 
saw there was now but little more dan- 
ger in forcing his vessel through the 
waves than in drifting with them. 

The engine-room bell jangled; the 
throb of the turning engines became 
companion to the beat of the pumps. 
The stem of the Sansanami swung 
boldly and drove direct for the naval 
base at Hai-Yun-Tao, in the Elliot 
Islands, twenty miles off^ Pitsevo. 

The sun, half an hour high, flooded 
the white-specked sea with yellow 
radiance and disclosed, over the bow 
of the Sansanami, a blotch of black 
above the glistening green of the hori- 
zon. Another blotch rose behind it; 
now others — the smoke of the Japanese 
battle-ships and heavy cruisers going 
to watch stations off Port Arthur, 
relieving the lighter cruisers and torpedo 
craft which kept the watch at night. 

As he saw this, Yasui suddenly 
realized that the safety of his ship had 
deprived him of escape by death from 

In a few moments, he must proclaim 
failure from his flagstaff to all the ships 
in sight. They had seen the Sansan- 
ami and the officers had made out 




through their glasses the wreck of the 
side exposed to them. Undoubtedly 
they had been calling to him by the 
wireless for some moment?; but his 
installation had been wrecked. Soon 
the ships would be within flag-signaling 
distance. Already Adachi could dis- 
tinguish them, the gray battleships 
Aschi, Yashima, then the flagship 
Nikasa; no, that second one was not 
the Yashima; it was the Shikishima, 
the sister-ship. For neither the Yas- 
hima nor the Hatsuse were there; 
yesterflny morning they — the powerful 
great Yashima and the Hatsuse — with 
the Shikishima were on watch. So 
to-day they were not there. The rest 
were cruisers and destroyers. And 
then one destroyer came toward the 
Sansanami and a line of flags broke 
from the mast of the Mikasa. 

Sub-lieutenant Yasui ordered the 
answering flags broken upon his mast. 
"Out of service through careless- 
ness in exploding mine. No en- 
counter with enemy. Able to 
reach base without assistance." 
The signal flags upon the Mikasa 
fluttered down; the destroyer, which 
had swung toward the Sansanami, 
returned to the squadron. With no 
other notice of any sort, silently and 
without sheer of any ship, the fleet 
steamed past torpedo boat of the third 
class. No. 108, able to continue to the 
base, but out of service through the 
carelessness of its commander, without 
having encountered the enemy. 

Steering into the crowded harbour 
of Hai-Yun-Tao at noon, Adachi Yasui 
looked about for the battleships Hat- 
suse and Yashima. 

The old and slow battleship, Fuji, 
was there ; beyond it the heavy cruisers 
Kasugo and Nisshin, and other ships of 
the armoured cruiser squadron heaved 
and pushed with the tide. Smoke shot 
up from stacks of lighter cruisers, auxi- 
liaries and torpedo craft. Yasui 
counted clumsy hulks fitted as mine- 
sweepers with rope trawls and grapnels. 
But the two powerful battleships, for 
which he looked, were not there. 

Howe\er, he then had no time for 
wonder upon what duty the missing 
battleships might have been detailed. 
A string of flags signalled the Sansan- 
ami's number. Obeying them, Yasui 
steered direct to the "Disabled" sta- 
tion, reported to the naval construction 
engineer, turned the Sansanami over 
to him and went on shore to rep)ort to 
his commodore. 

He first fancied that the sadness he 
saw in the faces of the officers he f)assed 
was but his inability to see a smile. 
But soon he realized this could not 
be so. 

Something had happened of which no 
one wishes to speak — something which 
gave the men, trying not to think of it, 
such close-shut, determined lips. 



Immediately the thought came to 
Yasui, "Our army has been defeated!" 
For it could not be the Navy; there 
was no sign upon any ship of a recent 
encounter. It must be the Army! 

He ventured to inquire of an officer 
whom he knew — a much older man, a 
first lieutenant. 

"No," his elder answered kindly, 
but so that the boy did not venture to 
ask more. "Our army, after its vic- 
tory, still rests before the next." 

Yasui entered the headquarters of 
his commodore. Then it was some 
ten ible catastrophe to the fleet which so 
entirely engrossed the old commodore, 
seated awkwardly in European fashion 
at his table covered with dispatches, 
reports and papers, which his eyes, but 
not his mind, examined. 

"I, by my own inexcusable careless- 
ness in firing upon the mines ordered 
to be destroyed, have damaged my ship 
so as to be incapable of service. The 

mine, in exploding, crushed in " 

The Commodore stopped him 

"Lieutenant Nomoto will report to 
me," he named the construction engi- 
neer. "Await him!" 

The boy, efTaced, stood back. He saw 
that his commander's eyes immediately 
had returned to the papers upon the 
table, that his attention had not ceased 
to be absorbed in the one great matter. 
Yet Yasui became conscious that, 
though his report of the Sansanami had 
been disregarded, his Commodore's 
consideration now was including him, 
somehow, in the problem before him. 
Twice he felt his senior's keen, piercing 
eyes study him. 

Suddenly the Commodore demanded 
of him. 

"What is it. Lieutenant Yasui?" 
"Commodore, I passed the fleet! I 
did not see the Hatsuse and the 
Yashima. They are not here! A 
disaster has occurred?" and he watched 
his elder's face for confirmation or 
denial of his guess. But the Com- 
modore gave him neither. 

His senior seemed merely suddenly 
reminded of something. He arose and, 
opening a drawer in a table at one side, 
he took out one from a number of little 
wooden boxes, not wider than a hand 
and pegged with bamboo nails. 
He extended this silently. 
Yasui, staring down at it in wonder, 
saw that there was a black name 
ideograph-painted in ink upon the 
cover; but for an instant it told him 
nothing. Then he recognized that it 
was the Buddhistic posthumous name 
of his elder brother of the Army on 
the Yalu. 

The Commodore quietly slid back 
the cover and showed him that it was 
filled — with a clipping of his brother's 
hair, and a folded paper which con- 


tained, Adachi knew, a handful of his 
brother's ashes. 

"Lieutenant Yasui! Your brother 
— after the fire of two regiments had 
failed to dislodge the enemy from an 
escarpment — gathered and led a keis- 
sheitai (certain death detachment) 
to storm it! A comrade in his regi- 
ment, who recovered his body, sent 
this here for you, writing, 'Captain 
Yasui so many times has spoken with 
pride and envy of his younger brother 
in the navy! Before setting upon the 
final assault he requested of me, "When 
I die, please let my brother know how 
brilliantly my death-fiower has blos- 

The terrible rebuke of it assailed 

"Commodore! Direct me to where 
I may lead, or join, a keissheitail" 

"The admiral sends in no more hulks 
to block the harbor," the Commodore 
replied coldly. "If they were to be 
sent, it would remain the right of those 
who have deserved to man them." 

Adachi, holding his brother's ashes 
reverently, bent his head over them. 
His commander had ceased to think 
about him, personally. Lieutenant 
Nomoto, the construction engineer, 
entered . He gave his report, tersely. 

" Repairs — if repairs are to be made, 
must be at Sasebo." 

SaselDo! So he must take his ship, 
the command of which he just had 
gained with so great pride, ingloriously 
to Japan to be rebuilt — if it were worth 
the repairs. The Commodore absently 
dismissed the engineer. 

Adachi kept his head bowed, await- 
Continued on page 129. 

Christmas at the Front 


SAID the Wise Man :— "The King 
is coming and I go to meet Him." 
Two others joined him and, by 
Sign of the Star, they travelled 
towards Bethlehem. What a voyag- 
ing it was ! Across level plains, 
where the herds of wild horses thun- 
dered in a mad gallop, or fed sweetly 
in the rich pastures; laboring over 
desolate passes, and sharp-shouldered 
hills; by beautiful little villages, and 
ancient cities, through a land perfumed 
by fragrant fruits, and darkened by 
magnificent oak groves; through nar- 
row defiles and orchards abloom with 
peach blossoms; across the yellow 
channels of the Euphrates — prophetic 
river ! — and by groves of date-palms 
■ — always the Star guiding with its 
ineffable yet gentle brilliancy to where 
in the little manger, between the ass 
and the ox, the Christ-child lay with 
His Virgin Mother. 

Wearily the old men plodded. 

And there came the night when 
they reached Bethlehem, and met upon 
the hills the "country shepherds abid- 
ing in the field, keeping watch over 
their flock by night." 

Ringing through the starlit night 
came the chant of the Angel of the 
Lord God. "The glory of the Lord 
shone around about them; and they 
were sore afraid. 

"And the angel said unto them — 
Fear not: for, behold I bring you 
tidings of great joy, which shall be to 
all people 

"And suddenly there was with the 
angel a multitude of the heavenly 
host, praising God, saying: — Glory to 
God in the highest, and on earth 
Peace, good will towards men." 

And as they sang — this multitude 
of the heavenly host^ — the small Christ, 
the gentlest, the meekest, the most 
lovable of human types, the real God 
in the real Man, was slumbering in 

By ''Kit" 

His little crib in the manger between 
the brooding cow, and the patient, 
munching ass. Outside, the skies were 
alight with a strange glory, the angels 
were harping their wild beautiful 
music — singing their songs of Peace. 
The old wise men who had plodded 
through the desert wastes, the stony 
places, the fruitful orchards, guided 
alike by beaming star and angel voices, 
were moving towards the humble 
stable where lay the Light of the 
World, the promise of God to those 
whom He made in His own likeness, 
the Saviour, the Deliverer. 

Think of it: that divine starlit 
night, the little Child willing to lie on 
a truss of straw between two of God's 
little beasts (whom we are so apt to 
despise and ill-treat), and the poor 
shepherds adoring, and the three 
great Kings of the East pouring out 
their presents of frankincense and 

And think of to-day — to-day in the 
trenches ! Men at each other's throats, 
the mad charge, the bayonet pinching 
its way through the living flesh; the 
dying over-ridden by gun-carriages, 
the drivers — by their own stories 
in the London papers — listening with 
closed and suffering eyes to the creak- 
ing of the bones of the dying. 

Christmas night ! the stars glimmer- 
ing, the angels chanting, the beautiful 
call of Peace and Goodwill beating 
through the air — and here, in God's 
world, the shocking clamor of war — 
the hideous slaughter — the damned 
work of the Devil, trying to undo the 
work of the patient, the laboring 
Redeemer on His road to Calvary. 

Christmas in the trenches ! Per- 
haps you think war is all glory, magni- 
ficent advances: men shot, but shout- 

ing admiring phrases for their flag and 
country as they lie in the dirt and mud, 
disemboweled, utterly destroyed, de- 
lirious, or pounded into splinters by 
the gun-carriages, which, under orders, 
have to crush them into the earth. 
Perhaps, in spite of the awful accounts 
in the daily papers, the battle means, 
as one fool-woman expressed it: — 
"being shot and done with." Well, 
take it from me, it does not. If you 
had ever seen a shot man kicking holes 
in the grass you would not count war 
as any sort of "glory." Nor would 
you talk of "heroes." We have made 
that name "hero" too common, but^ — 
let it go — 

Christmas Night Without 

Santa ; Christmas Morn 

Without Daddy 

We have had word already that our 
Canadian Expeditionary Force think, 
every one of them, and all the time, 
of Home. What, then, will it be to 
any of them, or to any other of our 
gallant, humorous, and beloved Brit- 
ish Boys at the front on Christmas 
Eve ? I question whether death would 
not be preferable to thinking of the 
little kiddies and Mother, alone — ^with- 
out Daddy, and his fine big strength 
and power, and his share in the Santy 
doings on the night before Christmas. 
Poor little Mother— the human crea- 
ture who bore and nursed and adored 
the dear noisy youngsters, who wrote 
letters to Santy and planted them 
about the fireplace somewhere, as my 
little, but very long stockings were 
planted long ago. And the delight of 
filling them ! The pretty, gentle hap- 
piness ! 

All this the men at the front, our 
tired fellows in the firing line, will 
consider when the Bethlehem stars 
are shining and the dreadful war pur- 

sues its course. If only one could 
help with a gentle word; I wonder if 
the men at the heroic work will under- 
stand the dear patience and love of 
Mother, waiting at home. 

Do you know what trenches really 
are ? They look fine in the pictures. 
But, (I have been in Spanish so-called 
trenches) and they are pits filled with 
things mentionable and unmentionable. 
Crude Christmas hospitality ! 

Think now, of our soldier in some 


bleak camp-tent or other shelter. 
Christmas Night— maybe the stars 
shining- — maybe the cold drizzle and 
East wind which racks Britain and 
Europe generally. The men thinking 
of the "Missus" and the little children 
at home and Daddy not there to help 
to fill the small stockings. 

"Seven of 'em, I have," said the big 
British Sergeant: "seven little blighters 
an' the Missus, an' 'ere I be in the firin' 
line Christmas Eve, and Gawd knows 


where I'll be to-morrow. The pore 
little blighters an' the Missus !" 

On the harping wings of the angels 
comes the message to all the grieving 
and troubled world- — the message of 
Peace and Goodwill to all men. What 
a mockery ! 

"Where's Daddy, Mother ? I want 
my Daddy for my Christmas." Daddy 
is lying dead on Christmas morning — 
in a far country, little boy. 

. To Kit • 

By Arthur Stringer 

Author of "The Woman in the Rain," "The Wire Tappers," etc. 

WHO'S the woman wid a trace 
Av the lough-light on her face, 
The woman wid the meltin' eyes and wid a sense 

av wit ? 
Faith, it's Kit, colleen Kit, 
The Kit whose name is spoken soft where moumin' women 

The Kit that all the world must love where lamp or turf is lit! 
The brogue that's on her Irish tongue is soft as Cleena 

And th' light that's in her sea-gray eye is sure the light o' 

dream ! 
And the bodagh wid a trouble, 
Seein' Kit, is seein' double, 
Wid a word to give him grit, — 
Grit to brace his sowl a bit 
And be stickin' like a burr. 
Till he falls to thankin' Kit 
For the likes av her, and for it ! 
What Erin's blade but loves that aisy-goin' smile av 

hers ? 
What thrush that has a voice that comes within a mile av 

hers ? 
Who patches up our troubles wid that woman's guile av 

And keeps this world the sweeter for that sootherin' smile 

av hers ? 
Faith, what's the use av arguin' it ? 

For it's Kit, lovin', laughin', crazy Kit, 

Who cheers us on to fightin', lads, and tells us when to quit I 

Who knows this sad ould world av ours and still keeps 

lovin' it ! 
Sure, it's Kit, our Irish Kit, 
The Kit who owns a heart as big as any shay. 
The Kit who'd be your friend a thousand miles away ! 
The Kit who's quick and kind , 
The Kit who's niver blind 
To what's beside her way. 

The rompin' Kit, it's ten to wan, ye'll spy so close behind 
The rompin' troops av Tiny Folk who turn our work to 

play ! 
For she's a colleen still is Kit, 
Niver growin' ould a bit, 

Teachin' us to pump a tear and drown it in a smile. 
Passin' out her Irish song to aise the longest mile ! 
And we thank you, Colleen Kit, 
For your God's own Irish wit 
And for keepin' young in heart 
(You and Youth can never part !) 
And for comin' from the Isle 
Where they're Irish to the core 
And the green is niver gray ! 
So miss or hit, here's to you, Kit, 
To you, wanst more ! for we love you like a mother. 
And like a brother, and like another 
Isle av Erin half a xvorld away from Erin's shore ! 

St. Nicholas and the Lovers 


By Emery Pottle 

Illustrated by Dan Sayre Groesbeck 


THERE is no occasion to make 
excuses for Fanny and Fritz. 
When one is— or rather when 
two are frank and twenty, and, 
at the same time, complacently and 
conspicuously in love with each other, 
I am not aware that it is a condition 
in which excuses are properly made. 
Unquestionably they would them- 
selves, I dare say rudely, resent any 
extenuation of their conduct. And 
any one else, as matters ultimately 
turned out, will not greatly be inclined 
to lay at their doors the obsolescent 
charge of indelicacy. Cecelia — Cecelia 
Francesca Purvis — and Lucius Pretty- 
man did not. 

To elaborate a bit- — Fanny Denton 
and Cecelia Francesca shared together 
a battered apartment on the roof of a 
great, gloomy, rambling structure, 
devoted to the housing of courageously 
impecunious art students. I say on 
the roof, since the case was just that: 
they lived in an insecure-looking story 
which the thrifty owners of the build- 
ing had hastily constructed on the 
top of everything to contain a new 
lot more courageous and more im- 
pecunious than the rest. Somewhere 
down the canal-like halls Fritz Allen 
also had a studio and Lucius Pretty- 
man another. 

In the daytime the four of them 
worked at an art school nearby — con- 

sidering, with excep- 
tional confidence, art 
wasn't so long or 
time so fleeting that 
they couldn't make 
both ends meet in a 
Career. Cecelia did 
miniatures, in a very 
ladylike and minia- 
ture way; Fanny in- 
clined to conventional 
designing; and as for 
Denton land Lucius, 
the former dashed out 
fictitious illustrations 
for his fictitious im- 
aginings, while Lucius 
toiled wor ri s o m e 1 y 
along in the "life 
class" and brooded deeply over the 
possibilities of large, depressing can- 
vases devoted to the depicting of 
death scenes of famous generals, and 
like inspiring subjects. 

Of a truth it cannot be said of 
Cecelia and Lucius that they were in 
the bloom of their youth, though, to 
be sure, Cecelia's spirit was innocently 
inexperienced to an appalling degree, 
and she was wont to clothe herself in 
garments of a limply artistic drapery, 
suggesting, in hue at least, the im- 
mortal, blithe Botticelli maidens. At 
any rate her soul was youthful and her 
nature unselfish and beautiful. 

Lucius probably never was young. 
The unpliable strands of his nature 
seemed never to loosen. One in- 
stinctively knew that Lucius's favorite 
poem contained rigid the sentiment 
that life is real, life is earnest. His high, 
pale brow betokened in its concen- 
trated little knot of lines above the 
nose, a spirit furrowed with the plough- 
share of Serious Effort. . . . He 
moved in and out among his fellows, 
a gentle, shabby, good-tempered, ab- 
normally shy creature whom all loved, 
when they were not consumed with a 
helpless rage at the ponderous preci- 
sion of his mental and physical work- 

It was natural enough that the four 
of them, living together in the "Roost" 

— so they called the parlous top stor\ 
- — should be much in each other's 
company. Youthful art is not a 
peculiarly solitary profession; and, 
moreover, their frank poverty, and the 
franker attachment of Fritz to Fanny 
gave additional strength to their bond. 

To Cecelia, the wooing of her room- 
mate afforded a first-hand observation 
of what to her was the most thrillingly 
beautiful and complex emotion of the 
world. Fanny, herself, being some- 
what practical even in the affairs <it 
her heart, did not encourage Cecelia's 
sentimental out-breathings. So it hap- 
pened that Cecelia fell into the habit 
of confiding the progress of the delicate 
footsteps of love to Lucius Pretty- 

The two men, of an evening, would 
drop into the studio of the girls — a 
very proper apartment, to be sure, 
with the beds converted artlessly into 
divans and all the feminine evidences 
hid in the closet. Lucius really was 
brought in the beginning by Fritz U> 
divert Cecelia from the fascination of 
his methods with Fanny. And it 
generally turned out that the two 
serious ones would early retire to the 
kitchen — an elastic apartment made 
by the folding of a screen about a 
little gas-stove — there to whisper and 
to cook up indigestible messes for 
refreshment; while Fritz and Fanny- 
well, it really is not our province to 
disclose the sweet story of their affec- 

It was in late October when Fanny 
briefly apprised Cecelia that she was 
engaged to Fritz. Cecelia kissed her 
rapturously. "My dear, my dear,'| 
she cried softly, "isn't it wonderful !' 

"O, I don't know," remarked her 
friend, sharpening a lead pencil judi- 
ciously. "Fritzie is a nice boy. And 
I'm sure he's very lucky to get me." 

CeceHa was staggered. "Oh, 
Fanny ! How can you ! Oh, it seems 
to me love is the most beautiful ' 

"O yes, everybody gets it sooner or 
later, they say," broke in Fanny 
prosaically. "It takes an awful lot 
of your time, though. Heavens ! I 

haven't done a thing in a month." 

"Dear, how can you joke about it ?" 
sighed Cecelia. 

Fanny looked up in surprise. "Mercy 
Cecelia, it's no joke. Lend me your 
gamboge, will you ?" 

Poor Cecelia, she was too bewildered 
to reply. 

That same night Fritz lounged into 
Prettyman's room. Lucius was brood- 
ing solemnly over a pipe. 

"Well, Lucy," Fritz let fall casually, 
"the little girl and I have hit it off." 

"I beg your pardon," said Lucius 

"Fanny and L you know — engaged 
— 'love, true love, undying,' " grinned 
Fritz with appreciation. 

Lucius rose with grave ceremony and 
put out his hand. "Allen, I — I con- 
gratulate you, sir, she's a splendid 
woman. You are a fortunate man." 

"Sure, Lucy, that's the eye. She's 
a little peach. Guess we'll do the 
trick all right." 

Prettyman sat down heavily. He 
could not grasp the insouciant Fritz's 

"But " he hesitated laboriously. 

"You aren't going to cry about it, 
are you ?" said his friend briskly, 
lighting a cigarette. 

Lucius seemed about to reply; in- 
stead he lapsed into a mood of impres- 
sive thoughtfulness. After a long 
silence he stammered blushingly, "Ah 
—Allen — ah — did you — ah — if you 
don't mind my asking — was it — ah— 
hard to do ?" 

"Was what hard ?" 

"Why, the — the — the asking her, 
Allen ?" 

Allen's eyes twinkled. "Well, old 
boy, it — it was harder not to, you 

"Ah," ejaculated Lucius uncom- 

"Ever tried it ?" confidentially re- 
marked Fritz. 

Lucius flushed. "No sir, I — I — I — 

"It's great," said Allen, as he de- 
parted, "you never can tell till you 
try." _ 

Lucius Prettyman sat for hours that 
night, alone in his room, scarcely con- 
scious of the chilling atmosphere, mus- 
ing modestly on the strange, madden- 
ing ways of love. The result of his 
cogitations amounted to this: "I 
couldn't do it, I couldn't — I don't see 
how they do." 

The next day he overtook Cecelia 
on her way home from the art school. 
For some reason they both flushed 
scarlet at sight of each other. It was 
very difficult to start any suitable 
topic of conversation. At length 
Cecelia timidly referred to the flames 
of the divine fire which now publicly lit 
the souls of Fritz and Fanny. The 


two discussed the situation evasively. 
They wondered if, after all, "their 

love was they seemed so Love, 

real love, was such a Yes, it was 

a noble, a " But there was a new 

and discomforting element between 
Cecelia and Lucius that attracted and 
compelled, even while it distressed and 
bewildered. It was precisely as if 
these two onlookers somehow were 
vicariously assuming all the sweet 
confusion, all the tumultuous emotions, 
the modest csctacies that Fanny and 
Fritz seemed not to undergo. Cecelia, 
indeed, took the conversation so ser- 
iously that she went to bed with a 
nervous headache. 

Once the crucial hour of engage- 
ment was over, Fanny and Fritz had 
more leisure to look about them. 
They bore the rosy wreath of love with 
great composure. And since there is 
that in love — like misfortune — which 
dislikes singleness of experience, they 
presently cast about them to involve 
their unattached friends in a toil like 
their own. 

"Wouldn't it be simply perfect if 
poor old Sissy and Lucy 
should fall in love with each 
other ?" considered Fanny, 
one afternoon. 

"Those two !" replied Fritz. 
"Why, there's no more 

f 11 i\ Tl r*p - — 

"Oh, isn't there ! Watch 
them. Cecelia is a mush." 

"But Lucy — why, you'd as 
soon think of a 
Methodist chapel 
playing on the 
beach at Coney 
Island, as Lucy in 

"Pooh," retort- 
ed Fanny, airily, 
"he's mad about 
her. Don't tell 


me. When they're old and get it 
they're perfectly dotty. I've seen it in 

"Have they said anything ?" in- 
quired Fritz, fascinated at Fanny's 

"Said anything ! They don't dare." 
Of a truth, it would seem that the 
astute Fanny had accurately diagnosed 
the situation of Cecelia Francesca and 
Lucius. Up to the time of the cul- 
mination of Fanny's romance, the 
two had taken each other's society in 
a grateful, unconscious freedom, but 
now their slightest encounter covered 
them with a dreadful confusion. They 
became tongue-tied, though the desire 
to talk was riotous within them. The 
embarrassment of Lucius, in especial, 
was distressing to observe. Cecelia 




clad herself in dull draperies of a 
sombre hue — as if she were doing a 
penitential office for the soul of love. 
In fact, instead of performing the 
light-hearted service of cup-bearers 
to the young gods, Fanny and Fritz, 
they hung about funereally in corners. 
This abysmal condition was, in the 
early stages, a delight to the lovers. 
They considered it an ephemeral 
affectation, due in part to age and in 
part to extreme inexperience. There- 
fore, to help matters along, they made 
jovial comments with ill-concealed 
meanings to Cecelia and to Lucius — a 
form of diversion of so ghastly and so 
indelicate a character to the serious 
pair that Cecelia was wont to end the 
evening in a burst of tears. On one 
occasion when Fritz referred, with 
humorous intent, to love as an un- 
scratchable itching of the heart, Cecelia 
became almost faint with disgust, and 
poor Lucius got up ponderously and 
retired to his own quarters. So 
brazen were the manifestations of 
affection on the part of the engaged 
ones, and so poignantly barbed were 
ihe insinuating arrows of their wit, 
Cecelia could no longer bring herself 
to comment upon the case to Lucius, 
while he, in turn, almost dreaded the 
sight of her. 

They avoided each other. Pretty- 
man no longer came of an evening to 
the studio of the girls. And Cecelia, 
anguished of heart, would retire alone 
to the kitchen, there to sniffle weakly, 
her ears stuffed with cotton that she 
might not hear the lovers. The very 
necessity, as they conceived it, that 
sundered their companionship, worked, 
as one might expect, to the incan- 
descence of their, as yet, unnamed 
emotions. Cecelia, in a blush of 
maidenly indiscretion, secretly painted 
from memory a miniature of Lucius — 
which on completion she hid. Pretty- 
man left off the imaginary composition 
of battle scenes and let his mind wan- 
der to the delights of statuesque houris 
• — ^with the face of Cecelia — washing 
their feet publicly on marble balconies. 
When, toward Christmas, Fanny and 
Fritz were forced to the conclusion 
that their amorous devices to entrap 
their friends were resulting in apparent 
failure — for Fanny's intuitions, agile 
as they were, could not compass a 
concealed love, like the worm i' the 
bud— they were frankly annoyed. 

"They're a pair of dubs," said Fritz, 
in irritation. 

"Sissy is really the limit," acqui- 
esced Fanny. "Pm sure we've done all 
we could to help the thing along." 

"Oh, well, I move we shake them 
both. They're too old to fool with. 
They've had their chance." And with 
this Fritz closed the discussion. 

On the afternoon before Christmas' 
Day Fanny was alone in the studio, 


dressing to go out with Fritz. Dis- 
covering that at the moment she had 
had no clean pocket-handkerchief, she 
resorted simply to Cecelia's stock. 
Rummaging through the lattcr's mod- 
est trunk for the article in question, 
she unearthed the miniature of Lucius. 

"Well, my heavens !" she exclaimed. 
"The silly old things." Whereupon 
she sat down abruptly and shrieked 
with laughter. 

Fritz found her on the floor, the 
miniature in her hand, giggling. She 
held it out to him mutely, too over- 
come for words. 

"Great goodness," he cried, "it's 
Lucy — Lucy, looking like a perfect 
lady of the 1830 type !" 

"I ask you !" began Fanny, recover- 
ing speech, "I ask you ! I found it in 
Cecelia's trunk. I was looking for a 
hanky. She did it !" 

"The sly thing ! Fan, this is great ! 
What'll we do with it ?" 

"Do with it ! 'Tisn't ours — we'll 
put it back. Sissy'd die if she knew 
we had seen it," said Fanny. 

"Not on your life we'll put it back. 
Let's have some fun out of it." 

"But Cecelia " 

' Cecelia jiothing ! She's fooled us. 
We'll fool her." 

"Now Fritzie — ^I won't stand for — " 

"Oh, that's all right — it'll be the 
joke of our lives. Ah, say, don't fuss, 
think of the fun." 

"Well," weakened Fanny, "it would 
be fun to do something with it." 

"I'll tell you what ! We'll do it up 
and send it to Lucius for a Christmas 
present. He won't think of its being 
a josh, anyway. And he knows that 
no one but Sissy could possibly do a 
miniature of him." 

"It's a sweet idea," replied Fanny 
rapturously. "We'll do it now while 
she's away. . . . She must be 
crazy about him. Do vou suppose 
he " 

"Well, he will be, if he isn't now, 
when he sees this !" assured Fritz. 

The miniature forthwith was wrap- 
ped up delicately in white tissue paper 
and tied with a little white ribbon in 
which was tucked a piece of holly. 
"That's bully," declared Fritz joy- 
ously, "and I'll leave it in Lucius's 
room when he's out to-night — he's 
going to some beastly lecture on Art." 

"Sissy's gone out for the afternoon 
and she's going to stay out for dinner, 
too, and the theatre afterwards," re- 
flected Fanny. "She has some grand 
friends who ask her once in awhile, you 
know. So we're perfecty safe. She 
won't miss the thing to-night. 
It's really dreadful to do it, but it's so 
funny !" 

That evening at an hour when he 
judged Prettyman would have returned 
from his lecture, Fritz Allen wandered 

casually in upon him. Lucius seemed 
excessively confused at sight of his 
visitor. He thrust something hastih 
under a pile of papers on the table 
before him. 

"What you hiding, Lucy t" l)egan 
Fritz without hesitation, "a Christmas 
present ?" 

"Nothing. I — I " 

"Oh, say, Lucy — I saw you now. 
What is it ? Out with it. Can't you 
trust me ?" 

Allen made a sudden dash for the 
table. Prettyman tried to intercept 
him. He was too late. F"ritz, ward- 
ing him off with one hand, held up the 
miniature in the other, yelling with 
glee. "O, Lucy, O, Lucy ! It's a 
picture of you !" 

"Give that here," demanded Lucius, 

Allen regarded the little portrait 
critically. "It's mighty good, Lucy, 
it's fine. Who did it ?" 

"I— I— I " 

"Out with it !" 

"I don't know. I found it here," 
confessed the reluctant Lucius. "I 
suppose it's a gift." 

"Oh, tell that to the elevator-man ! 
You can't fool me," giggled Fritz. 
"Naughty, naughty ! Say, who did 
it, Lucy !" 

Prettyman attempted dignity. 
"You needn't believe me if you don't 
care to. I found it here when I came 

"Found it here, old man ! Vou 
don't say so. That's funny !" 

Allen sat do^vn and eyed Lucius 

"It was here when I came home," 
repeated Lucius awkwardly. "I — It 
is very strange." 

"Strange ! I should say so. But — 
say, Lucius, there's only one person 
who could have done it." 

"Allen, what do you mean ?" 

"Mean. Oh, you know. Cecelia 
Francesca Purvis ! That's whom I 

Lucius was flooded with sentimental 
blushes. "Oh, no, \~0h, no !" 

"Sure she did, old boy. I — ^well, of 
course, I don't want to butt in on 
your affairs — well, it looks, you know, 
as if " 

"Allen, I won't have you talk that 
way about a lady." 

"Why, no offense, Lucy, I'm sure. 
It was mighty nice of her." 

"You don't think, Allen, that she—" 

"Well, Lucy, what I think is this: 
That girl is strong for you. Of course, 

if you don't care for her, why " 

It happens that way at times. The 
most reserved and timid of us reach a 
point when our doors are opened wide, 
when we speak with the tongues of 
men about the angels. It was so with 
Lucius Prettyman. He began to talk 
to Fritz. He talked wildlv well. 

There was nothing hidden in him that 
"was not revealed, and even the light- 
minded Allefi became nervous and 
uncomfortable. And the burden of 
Lucius's song was always Cecelia, 
Cecelia, Cecelia. Fritz had a sicken- 

I' ig feeling that the thing had ceased 
J be a joke. 
"If you feel like all this you say you 
o, old chap," Allen got out lamely, 
you ought to do something about it. 
I'd tell her." 

"Oh, I couldn't. I don't think I 
could," stammered Lucius, cold with 
fear at the thought. 

"I'll tell you what," Fritz suggested 
hopefully, "you write her a note and 
ask her to meet you in the Park to- 
morrow morning, Christmas Day, and 
say you have something important to 
tell her. Don't mention the miniature 
— that would embarrass her. Just tell 
her you want to talk to her, and I'll 
slip it under the girls' door to-night." 

"\\'oul(l she ?" Lucius got out in 
awed tones. 

"Would she what ?" 

"Come — if I asked her ?" 

"Sure she would. Try her." Fritz 
was growing more confident. ."You 
just write her. And I'll leave it at 
their room now." 

Prettyman, between distracted love 
and awful self-abasement, after tearing 
up a dozen sheets of paper, managed 
to set forth his modest request. 

"Fine," said Fritz heartily when the 
letter was submitted to his practiced 
eye. 'That'll draw her likfe a — a 
plaster, you know." 

"Allen, I don't know how to thank 
you — for — for " Lucius was wring- 
ing Fritz's hand in the excess of grati- 

With the letter in his hand, Allen 
hurried surreptitiously to Fanny. He 
judged that Cecelia Francesca had not 
yet returned from her festal day. He 
rapped cautiously on the studio door. 

"Who is it ?" demanded Fanny, 
opening the door a hair's breadth. 


"Mercy, Fritz, you can't come in ! 
I'm just " 

"Yes, I know, but there's something 
doing. I've got to talk to you, I 
don't want to come in. Can't you — 
.say, Cecelia isn't there ?" 

"No. Wait a minute." 

Presently the door opened wide 
enough to allow Fanny to put out her 
head. "What is it ?" she inquired 
with excitement. "Did you give 
Lucius the " 

"That's it, I did. I've just been 
in his room. He's foolish about it. 
Sat and grinned at his picture like a 
monkey. Went on about Cecelia till 
it made me sick. He's all up in the 
air — says he loves her like anything. 
Oh, Lord." 

Fanny was instantly impressed. 


"My goodness ! What did you say !" 

"I — I told him she was crazy about 
him. I think I did. He asked me 
what to do." 

"What did you tell him ?" demanded 
Fanny feverishly. 

"Well, you know, I — I felt sort of 
rotten about it. He's so serious over 
the thing. I — say, Fanny, it looks to 
me like a mess." 

"Stupid, what did you do ?" 

"I told him to write her a note asking 
her to meet him to-morrow in the 
Park — In the morning — and I said I'd 
leave it here for Sissy — She " 

"It's perfectly dreadful," gasped 
Fanny, "she sha'n't have that note." 

"Sha'n't " 

"Certainly not." Fanny was decisive. 

"But — why, you can't — you'll bust 
up their show if you don't let her " 

"Idiot ! If Cecelia got that note 
the first thing she'd do would be to go 
and look at that old miniature. And 
it wouldn't be there. And she'd 
accuse me. And there'd be a sicken- 
ing time." 

"But, Fan " Allen was utterly 

confused at the turn of affairs. 

"You've got to get that picture back, 
somehow. I don't care how. Give 
me that note. Give it to me. Cecelia 
sha'n't have it till you get the minia- 

"How in the deuce can I get it ?" 

"When is he going to meet her ?" 
asked Fanny. 

"At nine, I think." 

"Well, while he's out then, you'll 
have to break into his place and steal 
it and bring it here. I'll put it back. 
Then I'll give Cecelia the note and say 
I found it on the floor." 

"I can't see how that " 

"No, of course you can't. But / 
can. It'll be in her trunk, won't it ? 
And she can't accuse me of having 
taken it — at least, not right away. 
I'll get out of it somehow." 

"You're dreadfully virtuous all at 
once," retorted Fritz, sulkily. 

"It's worried me all the evening — 
taking that picture. And I'd never 
have done it if it hadn't been for you !" 

"Well, I like that ! _Who found it 
first, anyway, and " 

"Ssh ! There's Cecelia coming. 
Don't you dare to argue with me. 
You've got to get the picture. Cecelia, 
dear, is that you ? ^ow must be tired 
to death. Come in and let's get to 
bed right off," sweetly finished Fanny, 
hastily concealing Prettyman's note 
in the folds of her rohe de chambre. 

In all probability the somewhat 
imperfect scheme of Fanny's would 
have worked in the fashion she antici- 
pated had it not been for a reason of 
which she naturally could have known 
nothing. It had been Cecelia's ro- 
mantic custom, since the painting of 
the miniature, to take it from its 


hiding-place and to bid it the tender, 
whispered good-nights she might not 
properly bestow on the original. She 
did this in the kitchen at a moment 
when Fanny was under the impression 
that Cecelia was saying her prayers. 
In consequence, on this particular 
evening, Cecelia Francesca went to her 
trunk to perform the last sacred rite 
of what had been to her a peculiarly 
happy day — to wish Lucius a "Merry 
Christmas." Her fingers, touching the 
familiar place, did not feel the minia- 
ture. She hurriedly dashed out the 
contents of the trunk, her bosom 
heaving with anxiety. She could not 
find the token. For a moment Cecelia 
stood petrified with shame and fear. 
Then suddenly the truth flashed in 
upon her. Fanny ! She must have 
taken it. No one else could have. 
The gentle Cecelia shook with a tor- 
rent of anger, the like of which she had 
never known. Like a wild nocturnal 
avenger she flew at Fanny in her bed. 

"How dared you !" she cried, snatch- 
ing the bedclothing from the terrified 

"O, how dared you !" She shook 
her violently. "Don't lie ! I know 
you took it ! You stole it ! You — 
you — you — thief ! I hate you ! Where 
is it ? Where is it ?" 

Cecelia jerked the collapsing Fanny 
from her cot and towered above her, 
cowering on the floor. "It's cruel ! 
How could you ! Beast !" 

Fanny essayed to speak," but Cecelia 
looked so tall and terrifying in the 
dim gaslight of the room that, for the 
life of her, she could not get out a 

"Beast !" repeated Cecelia, with 
awful tragicality. 

Fanny recovered herself slightly. 
"Cecelia," she quavered, "it was only 
a joke '■ 

But Cecelia's rage was spent. She 
sat down weakly on the trunk-top and 
sobbed. Long, shivering, dreadful and 
convTjlsive sobs. "O it's mean ! Cruel! 
Fanny, how could you ! O dear ! O 
dear! O dear !" 

To describe the mental state of 
Fanny is hardly necessary. She dared 
not speak, she lay wretchedly on her 
bed for half an hour, in her ears the 
monotonous moans of the girl over 
there on the trunk. Sometimes Fanny 
was enraged, sometimes repentant, 
sometimes hysterically tearful and 
sometimes full of nervous laughter. 
"I .shall die if she keeps this up much 
longer," she assured herself. Finally 
she leaped from her cot, flung on a 
wrapper and slippers, tied up her head 
in a scarf and precipitately left the 
room. She ran straight to Fritz. 

"Fritz, F"ritz," she whispered, as she 
heard sleepv sounds within his quarters. 
"Fritz !" 

Continued on page 13.5. 



The Dream of Prussianism i 


By A. Vernon Thomas 

Illustrated from Photographs 



recent dictum that "to come 
at the truth, by observation, 
about a foreign country is 
immensely, overpoweringly, difficult" 
shall not discourage me. This is only 
Mr. Bennett's humor. 

For, while telling us that a nine 
years' residence in France would not 
justify him even in writing a cheap 
handbook about French character and 
life, Mr. Bennett feels himself able, 
"on general principles," knowing noth- 
ing of Germany by actual experience, 
to offer us a close analytical study of 
the German soldier's mind. Sub- 
consciously in this mind, Mr. Bennett 
tells us, is the recollection of social 
and economic wrongs. And this recol- 
lection, he assures us, will, at some 
psychological moment of the war, 
prevail over bumptiousness and self- 
conceit, giving the battle into the 
hands of the Allies. 

While I have no great faith in 
arguments based upon "general prin- 
ciples," I feel that Mr. Bennett is 
right in concluding, as he does con- 
clude, that the heart of the German 
people is in the war. I reach this con- 
clusion as the result of what I observed 
during four years in which I earned 
my living in Germany and three years 
in which I was similarly occupied in 
Switzerland, a few miles south of the 
German border. 

During this period, for weeks and 
months together, I spoke nothing but 
German. Indeed, on returning to 
England, whose shores contained me 
till I was twenty-one, I was informed 
that I spoke English with a German 
accent ! On my table as I write is a 
bronze paper knife which I won in a 
boat race upon the river Neckar at 
Heidelberg, my four companions in 

the boat being Germans. With four 








German companions I have rowed on 
the Neckar from Heilbronn to Heidel- 
berg in one day, a distance of sixty 
miles. I have tramped all over the 
Black Forest and the Odenwald and 
have been up and down the Rhine 
several times between Mannheim and 

In these amenities of my sojourn 
in Germany and in more humdrum 
occupation I have seen the Germans, I 
think, in every conceivable mood from 
Sunday-afternoon Gemutlichkeit to 
Monday-morning absorption. I have 
seen them in laughter and in tears, at 
work and at play; in brief, in most 
in the varied states and activities of 
which this our mortal life consists. 

I admit that all this may go for nothing 
in a discussion of the question whether 
the heart of the German people is in the 
war, but as to that the readers of 
CANADA MONTHLY must decide. 

At the head of a pension, or board- 
ing house, in a German university 
town are an elderly professor and his 
wife who will be vividly remembered 
by all — and their name must be legion 
— who have obtained shelter under 
their interesting, attractive and not 
less hospitable roof. And many times 
since the beginning of the war I have 
thought of this old couple, with whom 
I boarded for two years. It is Herr 
Professor's mental outlook which I 
wish to use as an illustration, but I 
cannot refrain from interpolating a 
word as to Frau Professor. 

She is, I think, the most remarkable 
woman I have ever met. She is the 
Professor's second wife, and, although 
German, lived for many years in 
Alsace with her first husband. On 
the strength of her French connec- 
tions, Frau Professor fills her pension 
every summer with French students 
and high-school boys, who come to 
learn German. For two or three 
months each summer her pension 
overflows and sleeping accommodation 
has to be found in neighboring estab- 
lishments for many of her flock. 

But the entire flock takes its meals 
in the pension proper, from thirty to 
forty sitting do^vn to dinner and sup- 
per, breakfast in Germany being an 
unimportant and unceremonious affair. 
At other times of the year Frau Pro- 
fessor presides over a less numerous 
assortment of English, American, 
Canadian, French and Russian and 
German students. 

The whole establishment lives, 
moves and has its being through Frau 
Professor. Not merely does she inspire 






52"'^ S£S^ 

— *"^_. -g.? jirii 


the whole establishment- — she is the 
whole establishment. Every detail of 
finance devolves upon her. Every 
tradesman deals personally with her, 
and personally, of course, she directs 
the servants. Frau Professor is the 
chief, and far the best, teacher of 
German in the pension. To provide 
opportunities for conversation she 
arranges excursions and personally 
conducts them. At table she is the 
centre of discussions, and with what 
art and tact she directs them ! In 
diplomacy and strategy Bismarck and 
von Moltke are babes compared to 
Frau Professor. 

I have seen Frau Professor one 
moment shake with temper when 
incensed at a loutish man-servant and 
the next beam angelically at a fresh 
arrival from France. At her beck and 
call are a select company of young 
ladies and young gentlemen of the 
locality whom she disposes cleverly 
and discreetly amongst her pension- 
aires for conversational purposes. She 
marshalls her little army with 
infinite skill. It advances and re- 
treats without a hitch. An accom- 
plished pianist, Frau Professor leads 
in the salon as she leads every- 
where. If it is a song, Frau Professor 
is at the piano. Frau Professor is there 
also if it is a cello or violin piece. 

Compared to Frau Professor, her 
husband, a broken down pedagogue, 
cuts a sorry figure. He has worldly wis- 


I ■ dom enough not to challenge 
Frau Professor in the man- 
agement of the pension, but 
he has never for a moment 
relinquished a claim to men- 
tal superiority. He thor- 
oughly despises her intel- 
lectual powers, while Frau 
Professor in her heart has 
only pity for her husband 
upon whom she lavishes her 
every care. She is a big- 
hearted woman. If it were 
not that Frau Professor's 
surpassing cleverness reduces 
him very much to a cipher, 
Herr Professor would pre- 
cipitate lots of trouble. But 
he gets no tether and is, to 
boot, a little lazy. Yet in- 
wardly he chafes at his posi- 
tion in the pension. His 
chief revenge is to descant 
at table upon the virtues of 
his first wife, endeavoring to 
create the impression that, 
as far as matrimony proper 
is concerned, he has, in his 
opinion, only been married 

While no doubt much of 
Herr Professor's mental make- 
^^^ up and his mode of express- 
^^^ " ing it is incidental, I submit 
that the essential attitude 
of his mind is characteristic of the 
German professorial class. That atti- 
tude, which was under my observation 
for two years, never varied and was in 
the main absolutist. It was the attitude 


of mind which assumes to decide all 
big things not only for itself but for 
others. Scores of times I have heard 
Herr Professor subjectively end con- 
versations with the curt chuckle, — 
"Das wissen wir." He would eject 
this formula epilogically after listen- 
ing to views with which he didn't 
agree and after stating an opinion 
contrary to the one which evidently 
obtained, at table or elsewhere. 

"Das wissen wir." We know that. 
And the "We" in this case did not, at 
least directly, mean God. It meant 
the whole body of German professors 
with Herr Professor an integral part 
of it. They, with God no doubt in the 
background, had examined the matter 
and had come to a decision. "Das 
wissen wir" was the result. The con- 
trary opinions of ordinary and unin- 
spired persons were not exactly to be 
suppressed or even countered violently. 
They might be listened to with amuse- 
ment and even with interest. For a 
little chuckle and a curt "Das ■wissen 
wir" would always put him right with 
his fellow-professors and with God. 

Herr Professor's mind accepted fully 
the militarist position. I fail to recall 
from him even a hint of criticism of 
Germany's autocratic constitution, of 
the position of the Kaiser and his 
ministers, or of the Prussian military 
spirit. Indeed during my four years' 
stay in Germany I never heard the 
Kaiser discussed at any time, with one 
exception. This was the remark of a 
hotel portier, usually very keen fel- 
lows, that the Kaiser's telegram to 



President KriiKor caused losses to 
German financiers. When first leav- 
ing England for Cicrniany I remember 
that my father's parting word, my 
" Reisepfennii!," as it were, was to keep 
my mouth i)articularly shut regarding 
the Kaiser. Cases of Lesc-Majcste 
were very common about that time. 

To return briefly to the German pro- 
fessor. It seems to me that the 
militarist writings of such outstanding 
German -professors as Heinrich von 
Treitschke, Adolf Wagner, Hans Del- 
briick, Ernst Haeckel, etc., are some 
evidence that the intellect of the 
nation is behind the German war 
lords. It is argued that the German 
professors, being civil servants, cannot 
engage in political controversy. But 
apparently they can as long as their 
contributions are on the side of mili- 

Although Treitschke has been dead 
for nearly twenty years his ultra- 
Jingoistic spirit seems still to dominate 
the political professors. If there are 
democrats of power and influence 
amongst the German professors we 
hear nothing of them. They must be 
content to reserve their speculations 
for the dusty shelves of libraries in- 
stead of bringing them into vitalizing 
touch with popular opinion. It is 
Treitschke, the panegyrist of the 
HohenzoUerns and the man who said, 
— "Let us take Holland; then we shall 
have them (colonies) ready-made," 
whose writings are chiefly before the 
German people. Haeckel, now eighty 
years of age, although unable to solve 
the riddle of the universe, is positive at 
least that Germany is fighting for 
freedom, justice, and commercial fair 

Amongst other contemporary Ger- 
man professors are Delbr ck and 
Eucken, both approaching the Psal- 
mist's three score years and ten. Both 
are justifying the German war lords. 
Delbr ck, the tutor of princes, is the 
man who said of Bismarck's criminal 
curtailment of the Ems telegram: 
"Blessed be the hand that traced 
those lines." Rudolf Eucken, the 
refined idealist, is to-day justifying 
the Belgian campaign of desolation 
and destruction. Truly the German 
general staflf works hand in hand with 
the lecture-room. 

It was not always so in Germany. 
Since the present century began two 
great German professors have passed 
away in Theodor Mommsen and 
Rudolf Virchow. The latter was the 
great pathologist who converted Berlin 
from a disease-infected area into a 
healthful city. When he died in 1902, 
the City of Berlin carried out his 
funeral. Virchow was a man of wide 
sympathies and these led him many 
times into fierce political strife. In 
1849 he was deprived of his academic 


chair on account of his leanings to- 
ward the revolutionists. Later he be- 
came a member of the Prussian Land- 
tag and later still of the Reichstag. 
Here, .side by side with the great Ger- 
man historian Mommsen, Virchow 
vigorously assailed the fx)licy of Bis- 
marck and drew from the Iron Chan- 
cellor the scornful nickname of "pro- 
fessor-politician." In 18G5 a scene 
took place between Virchow and Bis- 
marck in which they almost came to 
lilows. Negotiations for a duel were 
set on foot, but came to nothing. 
Apparently the breed of outstanding 
democrats like Virchow and Mommsen 
is extinct in the German universities. 
At Heidelberg I remember hearing 
a public lecture by one of the smaller 
fry of the German academicians, a 
professor named Tilly. Professor 
Tilly had previously lectured at a 
Scotch university, but he had left after 
a row with the students over a ques- 
tion of naticmality. In the lecture to 
which I have just referred. Professor 
Tilly described the probable develop- 
ment of the German Empire. His 
conclusions were of the most striking 
kind. In what seemed to me a crude 
way, he outlined the inevitable falling 
apart of the British Empire and the 
absorption of a considerable portion 
of it by a ready and waiting Germany. 
What was to happen to Canada I do 
not clearly remember, but I remember 
quite distinctly that the fortunes of 
war were to land Australia reposefully 
in the lap of Germany. The point I 
wish to make is that it was possible 
for a German professor to deliver a 
public lecture of this kind in a German 
university town in recent years, and 
to be listened to in dead earnestness. 
Another recollection which comes 
to me is that of Professor Kuno Fis- 
cher, renowned philosopher and Shake- 
spearean critic. I attended several 
of his lectures in Heidelberg, these, as 
is quite frequently the case in Germany, 
being free to the public. Whether all 
the stories told about Kuno Fischer 
are true I am not prepared to say, but 
it is certainly true that his conceit 
was enormous. I have still a vivid 
mental picture of how he looked on his 
walks abroad in Heidelberg. A mas- 
sive figure, he went along with one 
hand behind his back and in the other 
a stick. His face was large, clean- 
shaven and grimly set, a smashed or 
very flat nose giving him almost a 
pugnacious appearance. His was 
obviously a personality into which it next to impossible to drive 
new ideas. 

The stories told of Kuno Fischer's 
conceit and eccentricity are legion. 
He hated beards and moustaches and 
relegated them to the back of his 
lecture room. He is said, on one 
occasion, to have reprimanded a beard- 

ed freshman who ventureti too near 
the frcmt of his lecture room with the 
remark that the garb "of our primeval 
ancestors" was incompatible with t!i<' 
dignity of a philosopher, adding that 
before he could begin his lecture hr 
must ask his primeval friend to tak( a 
place nearer the back. A i^rejudi' >■ 
against the admission to his cla— 
r(X)m of "women and dogs" is al-o 
attributed to Kuno Fischer. He 
asserted some sort of claim to the 
title of "Excellenz" and insisted uijon 
being addressed by it. It is said of 
him that he once remarked: "How- 
strange it is that the sons of gnat 
men seldom emulate their father^. 
There's my sfm, for instance, only an 
ol)scure doctor of medicine." Kumi 
Fischer is also credited with the saying; 
that the German Empire contain* '1 
but two philosophers — and that "the 
other one" was at Strasburg. 

Let us leave the German professors 
and glance at other sides of national 
life. Of recent years British games, 
notably football, have been introduced 
into Germany and have attained quite 
a vogue. I was for two or three win- 
ters a member of a German football 
club and noted constantly how my 
German companions always drifted 
into a machine-like way of playing 
and how they seldom developed 
initiative. Rules and order were 
meticulously insisted upon, not in 
itself, perhaps, a bad thing. But 
when the German young men played 
football they played it as soldiers. 
It was the same in a gymnastic class 
or in rowing. The militar>' spirit per- 
vaded. I have heard a German boy 
in a boat furiously denounce another 
member of the crew for some slight 
and trivial inattention. Similarly 
on the football field any lapse from 
what was considered correct play 
would be vigorously commented upon. 

The fact is that the military spirit 
has dominated the whole atmosphere 
of Germany, as fashion and gaiety may 
be said to have dominated the entire 
atmosphere of Paris. Berlin has been 
well called a city of soldiers, but the 
truth is that the whole German nation 
has been a nation of soldiers. The 
spirit of immediate obedience to 
constituted authority, with paternal- 
ism as its necessary counterpart, is lo 
be found everywhere. Conflicts be- 
tween civilians and soldiers have been 
quite frequent in Germany. There 
has always been a nervousness as to 
the possibility of unintentionally jost- 
ling an officer in the street, or <jt 
offending him in a restaurant or other 
public place. The tradition, of course, 
is that a German soldier's honor must 
be defended at any cost. And in the 
upholding of this tradition man\ 
German civilians have been murdered 
Continued on page 122. 



Say Him 






By Louise R. Rorke 

Illustrated by P. C. Sheppard 


N' I haven't the money to 

take me toVal Cartypz. It 

do be costin' a sight o' money, 

that do be." 

"A good deal of money," acquiesced 

McNaughton, smiling at the wrinkled 

old face beside him. 

"An' so," the old Irish voice went 
on, a little cadence of satisfaction 
glimmering through it, "so I just sold 
the bit pig — for shure I can live widout 
it, an' what would I be wantin' wid a 
pig, an' Jimmy off that far an' livin' 
on army biscuits ? — I can get through 
the winter somehow. An' the money 
I got for the little fella' got me a ticket 
to Sudbruy; for Jimmy wrote me the 
throops do be goin' by there, an' Sud- 
bruy's not so far. But it's a woeful 
long way for an ould body like me, 
as never went on the cars before save 
to a Twelft' o' July in Fordham, or a 
bit Sunday School Excursion with me 
own man an' the childher. Ah, well, 
me own man's been dead this twenty 
year an' more, an' the childher — God 
keep 'em — scattered about the world. 
Jimmy's the baby — an' him off to Val 
Cartyez to be a soldier ! 

"He's a good boy, Jimmy is, an' 
ever since he went out west to work 
I've got his little bit money every 
week. An' he wrote an' asked me 
would he go — for I might be needin' 
it, he said; an' if — if he didn't come 
home, he said, — but shure he'd come 
home to me again ! — then, — then what 
would I be doin' ? But I wrote him 
I'd not be shtandin' in his way. The 
lad's heart's that set on it — an' all 
the other lads wid him goin'! It's 
never my boy 'ud shtay behind afraid 
like. For my father was a soldier 
away back beyond in Kilmarnock, 
an' his father was a soldier before that. 
So I wrote the lad not to be frettin' — 
me an' the bit pig 'ud pull through 
the winter shplendid, and I'd ways 
o' makin' money he knowed nothin' 

"But I got to think- 
in' maybe he'd be a 
bit lonesome, comin' 
down by wid niver a 
look at his ould mother. 
A good-bye ye write, 
black an' white an' 
cold on paper isn't like 
the good-bye ye say 
wid yer eyes an' yer 
lips. An' I — I got 
thinkin' — maybe he's 
not got warm flannens 
on him — or maybe 
they'd not get quite 
enough to eat down there in Val 
Cartyez. An' I got thinkin' — maybe 
he'd be sick or cold widout a nip 
o' me cordial to make him betther 
an' — me boy's no coward, he's always 
been a brave fine lad — but, oh, 
I got to thinkin' maybe some day 
he'd be frightened — just frighten- 
ed like when he was a baby an' clung 
so tight to me an' hid his face in me 
shouldher — an' — an' I got to wishin' 
I could ask him to mind his prayers, 
an' tell him I was sayin' mine over 
every night for him — " 

The old voice trailed off into imcer- 
tainty. McNaughton could not see 
the face she turned to the window; but 
he felt there were tears on her cheeks. 

They were chance acquaintances. 
McNaughton, making his way north- 
ward to join his construction party at 
work on a northern branch line, wan- 
dering back from his sleeper in search 
of entertainment had come upon the 
little old lady sitting in nervous state 
on the very front seat of one of the 
first class coaches, her eyes keeping 
strict watch of a huge market-basket 
deposited at her feet. She was dressed 
in neat though rusty and old- 
fashioned black; her toil-stained hands, 
crossed in her lap, were guiltless of 
gloves, and the feet that showed 
beneath her plain short skirt were 
cased in the coarsest of shoes. Her 


face was brown and wrinkled and 
weather-beaten, and, save for two 
things, she was such a little insigni- 
ficant old woman as one might have 
found on many a railway of the north 
land. And the first of these was that 
she had an air of courage and daring 
almost martial, a sort of premonitory 
victory which shone out from her old 
face and found its home in the stead- 
fastness of the old eyes which, looking 
for the first time on so much that was 
strange, yet faced the accomplishment 
of her task without hesitation. The 
second, and what had drawn Mc- 
Naughton's attention, was that in 
the very front of the old widow's bon- 
net which she had worn on state 
occasions now for twenty years, was 
pinned a brilliant little toy flag — -the 
Union Jack. McNaughton hesitated 
in the aisle beside her. Then, 

"May I sit here, mother ?" he asked 
her gently. 

She moved over to make room, a 
bit wondcringly, pUicing her basket 
away from his feet with grave care. 

"I see you're on your way to Val- 
cartier," he said with kindly banter. 
"May I ask if you're a Brigadier 
General or only a Colonel of Infantry?" 

She looked back at him with quiet 
eyes, his humour undetected. 

"Indade, I'm not that sor, — only 
the mother of a soldier goin' to say 



him good-bye. He was always great 

for flags, was Jimmy. I thought he'd 

like to see his mother wearin' this one. 

An' I thought he'd ought to have 

something to remind him of me out 

there in them foreign parts he'll be 

fightin' in. But he wrote a soldier 

can't be carryin' trinkets an' such — 

an' I thought there's one thing he'll 

be always lookin' at — in battle times 

an' — an' even if he's wounded — an' 

that's the ould Union Jack— God 

bless it. An' I thought if I just wore 

this wee one in me bonnet when he 

said good-bye he'd be more heartened 

like; an' maybe when he saw it again 

shinin' through the smoke o' the 

battle he'd send a thought back to 

his ould mother by her lone in Keppel 

Comers. An' I'd be comforted a bit too 


The laughter had died out of Mc- 

Naugh ton's eyes. 

"I'm sure there is no one who has a 
better right to wear it," he said gently. 
After that he busied himself for 
her comfort. ■ She had "brought a 
bit lunch" she told him, and eaten it 
before she left Toronto. She was 
"just goin' to sit there all night long." 
Maybe she'd "take wee cat naps after 
;abit." Did he think— anxiously — if 
she put her foot on the basket "this- 



like," suiting the action to the word, 
anybody 'd be so mean as to "go and 
shteal it" from her if she happened to 
fall asleep. "For," she confessed, "I 
never shlept a wink o' me eyes last 
night, and I be that tired I'm afraid 
o' me life I'll be tumbling ashleep!" 

McNaughton assured her. But what 
was in the basket ? 

"Well now, I'll tell ye," she whis- 
pered confidentially. "There's lots 
that many a one would be glad to get. 
There's two good shirts for Jimmy 
an' a g(x)d pair'o' woollen mittens. 
Mrs. Merton (that's the doctor's wife 
at Keppel Village) showed me a pair 
o' wristlets — that's what she called 
'em, stingy things'; just about up to 
a man's knuckles an' shtoppin' there ! 
She said they was what folks knit 
for the boys, but I couldn't bear to 
think of his poor red fingers out in the 
cold, an' I just went right ahead an' 
made him good ould-fashioned mit- 
tens. Do you think he'll like them ?" 
"I know he will," said McNaugh- 
ton, "He'll love every stitch." 

"An'," she added happily, "I've two 
pies an' a roasted chicken an' one o' 
those long muffler things for him to 
wear round his stomach — though," 
she added, with a little chuckling 
laugh, "I don't think Jimmy'll think 
much o' that. He 
was never great 
to bewrappin' up 
himself; he'd 
never be per- 
shuaded to wear 
an overcoat for- 
bye it was down 
to zero. I don't 
think he'll ever 
take to wearin' 
a muffler round 
his stomach ! An' 
I've two bottles 
of good cordial 
I made meself — 
case he'd be cold 
or sick; an' a fine 
good loaf of home- 
made bread an' 
some butter. An' 
I walked all the 
way to North - 
bury just to buy 
me two little 
cakes o' maple 
sugar, for he used 
to like it best of 
all the sweeties 
when he was a 
wee lad. An' 
there's three fine 
warm pairs o' 
socks there. I sat 
up near all night 
to get 'em finish- 
ed; but the last 
pair I'm worried 
's a bit queer- 

like, for I'd no more yarn to finish 
'em, an' I just bethought me an' un- 
ravelled the tops o' me shtockin's- 
shure they were too long be far, up t > 
me knees! But," she added wistfuIK . 
"they were red. Will he be laughiii 
do you think, at red ends on his grii\ 
socks ?" 

"Indeed he'll not," said McNaugh- 
ton. "Red is warmer than any otln r 
color, and it wears better. Didn't you 
see they were advising people who wck 
knitting for the soldiers to put red 
feet in their socks?" 

The relief on the old face paid him. 
"Is it so ?" she breathed, "an' I did it 
for him, not knowin'. Shure the 
saints were good to me that time." 

"I know just the place where you 
can sleep," he told her. "There's an 
empty berth next mine up in the 
sleeper. You could lie down there 
and have a real rest, just go to bed 
the same as if you were at home. 
I'll see that it's fi.xed up for you." 

She thanked him profusely, calling 
down blessings on his head for this 
kindness to "an ould body all by her 
lone," but she was manifestly uneasy. 
She'd be "likely not near so well off, 
but betther contint like" to sit just 
where Misther Cole, "who was the 
master of the station down forbye," 
had put her. "An' I might loose me 
basket if I fell to shleep, or they'd be 
whiskin' me on beyond Sudbruy. As 
for undhressin'! — saints preserve me — 
I could niver do that at all at all ! 
No, I'd bether bide where I be, thank 
ye kindly. I'm not used to thravellin' 
ways," she added apologetically, "an' 
I'd be more content to bide !" 

McNaughton, seeing the anxiety in 
the old blue eyes, acquiesed. 

"Of course," he said, but there were 
pillows for people who wanted them 
and blankets, too. He would get 
them for her at least. He came back 
with a grinning negro porter and stood 
by while he made the seat as com- 
fortable as might be, its occupant 
meanwhile sitting very erect and alert, 
one surreptitious foot on the precious 
basket. He left her still bolt upright, 
with the determination not to sleep 
one wink plainly showing in her eager 
old face. 

After he had gone and the few other 
occupants of the car settled down to 
noisy slumber, she sat patiently wait- 
ing. At first she peered out anxiously 
at every little station, fearful lest she 
pass her destination in the dark, 
though of course they had told her 
she could not reach it until morning. 
Hour after hour she watched the 
flitting procession of phantom lake and 
bluff and island, signal-lighted on 
occasion by the lamps of some little 
way-station which the great express 
roared by scornfully, passing out 
again into the night. It was like a 



dream, the strange motion through 
the pulsing darkness — its only reality 
that somewhere at its end, somewhere 
in this strange dark world or in another 
lighted one she was to find "Sud- 
bruy" and the troop-train and her 
"wee lad" going out to fight. Some- 
where out in that dark his train rocked 
eastward, and so many things may 
happen to a train ! And to a soldier— 
oh, dear God ! 

Toward morning she must have 
slept for she did not hear the stopping 
of the train. It was the movement 
of the passengers which roused her, 
and with a vague sense that something 
was wrong she peered out through 
the smoke-grimed window. Her fel- 
low-passengers were already on the 
platform and after a time of anxious 
uncertainty she summoned courage 
to follow their example, her precious 
basket tightly grasped in her hand. 

They were at one of the smaller 
way-stations, "Kepanegan" it read. 
There was nothing in sight save the 
frame station house, coldly gray in 
the twilight of sunrise. On both sides 
stretched a forest of poplar and birch 
shutting out the rest of the world 
save where the narrow roadway of 
the track led off into the dimness of 
the woods on either side. A low light 
burned in the bare waiting-room, but 
nobody seemed about. Shivering 
passengers walked the long platform 
disconsolate. She caught broken 
scraps of conversation, — "wait here 
for hours," "track washed out," "a 
broken dam," "German incendiarism," 
"a narrow escape," "merciful provi- 
dence," "strange thing to happen on a 
road like this !" "carelessness some- 
where," "the heroism of a trackman," 
"nothing here to eat," "no diner of 
course on the midnight special." 
From a door at the end of the 
' station house McNaughton emerged, 
making his way toward her through 
the crowd. She hurried to meet him. 
"An' where is't we are now ?" she 
queried anxiously. 

"Kepanegan. Drink this coffee, 
mother. We may be able to get 
something to eat later but there is 
no diner." 

"Arre we on this side o' Sudbruy, 
sor ?" 

"Indeed we are, mother, — fifty 

"An' how long will we be waitin' 
I here ? an' why ?" 

! "Nobody knows how long. There 
i is a big wash-out up the track." 

"An' it niver rained for weeks, sor ! 
■ It can't be ! They do be jokin' ye !" 
"No, t'was a broken dam on the 
I Apsinaga. But don't look like that, 
I Mrs. Maloney. We'll get you across 
j some way. I've telegraphed already 
I to find the troop train. It is still 
I four hours from Sudbury." 

"An' how long 
will it be takin' 
us to get there ?" 

"About two if 
we had an open 

She cast him 
a glance, despair- 
ing. "But the 
river," she haz- 
arded, "there'll be 
a way o' gettin' 
acrost it ?" 

"Yes, a man 
four miles down 
the river owns 
a little boat. We 
have sent for 
him already. 
They will per- 
haps make a 

The passengers 
in little groups 
of threes and 
fours had begun 
to Hiake their 
way to the scene 
of the disaster. 
The old woman's 
eyes followed 
them wistfully. 
"I think, sor," 
she said, "I'll just 
be goin' up after 
them, near bye to 
the raft." 

"But drink the 
coffee first, won't 
you?" McNaugh- 
ton pleaded. 

She lifted the cup to trembling lips, 
then put it down again untasted. 
"It's no use, sor," she said, "I just 
can't take it, someway." Her old 
eyes worr' full of unshed tears. "I'm 
that worried I'll miss seein' him I just 
feel I must get is near as I can. An' — 
an' I think I'll go on to where the raft 
will be. Shure it don't take long makin' 
a raft — a few bit boards like." 

McNaughton watched the bent 
eager figure hurrying away, the mar- 
ket basket still clutched tightly. He 
was sorry he had raised her hopes with 
the story of the raft. They would 
be too busy with the threatened track 
to spare time for anything but its 
safe-guarding for hours to come. In 
the station-house he waited long 
enough to send a message to his chief; 
then he followed the crowd toward 
the scene of disaster. At the end of 
the yard he overtook Mrs. Maloney. 
He was beginning to regard her as his 
especial charge and he slowed his 
pace to hers. 

"Well, General," he said, "how's 
the march ?" 

The land on either side lay low and 
marshy, crowded with swamp-cedar 
and tamarack. It dipped slightly as 


they went on and a "fill" had been 
made to preserve the level of the track. 
Then the slope of the land increased, 
the trees dropped away, changing to 
dogwood, willow and water-reeds 
through which swept a current of 
muddy brown water which shoved 
against the yielding ballast and sucked 
and curled along the sides of the track. 
The sound of axes came plainly from 
the neighboring swamp. Men were 
already cutting trees to serve as a 
retaining wall. This had once been 
the main bed of the Apsinaga. When 
the road was built a huge concrete 
dam a mile or more up the stream had 
turned the main river into the north 
channel, thus saving the expense of a 
bridge here, where, on account of the 
low land and the treacherous spring 
freshets, it must have been at least a 
mile in length. The "fill" had been 
much cheaper even with the added 
expense of the dam above. 

McNaughton and his companion 
entered and passed groups of excited 
passengers discussing the situation. 
A train man stopped them, saying it 
was dangerous to proceed but, re- 
cognizing McNaughton added, "Of 
course you know the place, Mr. Mc- 
Naughton, you can go on through if 


you wish." McNauKlUon had been 
resident enRineer on this section at its 
building five years before. They 
moved forward a few yards almost to 
the edge of the rushing water. The 
Apsinaga was one of the largest rivers 
of the division. Now it was pouring 
its way down the wide reedy valley 
as if it rejoiced to be once more at 
home. The dam had been dynamited 
during the night — German incendiar- 
ism, it was supposed, since troops were 
expected to move over this line, though 
they knew nothing definite. It had 
been guarded since the moving of the 
troops but only one picket had been 


«n duty as it was not supposed to be a 
likely point of attack since few people 
save an engineer would have under 
stofxl its value. Picket and dyna- 
miter had both perished in the ex- 
plosion which it was reported had 
torn away the banks and dug a great 
hole in the river bed into which its 
waters along with those of the north 
branch were pouring, only to be pushed 
out relentlessly by the force oehind 
them and hurried down the old chan- 
nel which, long before the C. P. R. had 
made a great river of the north branch, 
the Indians knew and followed as the 

Where the main force of their i ui- 
rent struck the long "fill" on whicli 
the track crossed the Apsinaga vallcs 
it had swept out every vestige of bal- 
last. For more than a hundred feet 
the track hung like some giant spifkr- 
web from crumbling edge to edge, and 
fifteen feet below, the tops of the piles 
driven to form a foundation for the 
lighter ballast of the fill showed clean 
and bare. For the main part the 
rails, bolted as they were to each other 
and to the ties, held these latter in 
their places. Occasionally one broke 
away and fell with an (xid dull splash 
Continued on page 140. 

Card -Indexing the Babies 



EMMELINE worked in a 
glove factory and she 
made $6 a week. She 
was nineteen. She was 
pretty. She had a father that 
the lamp posts hated to hold 
up, and a mother whose arms 
rarely came out of the wash tub 
save for the purpose of seeking 
the unprotected portions of the 
six littler Emmelines and John- 
nies who made life in three 
roorns a picture puzzle, even 
when one was sober. And Em- 
meline's mother wasn't, always. 

Laundry work, even with a 
jag in parenthesis, doesn't tend 
to sweetness of character, and 
Emmeline stayed out of the 
atmosphere of suds and sulphur 
as many evenings as she could. 
A young expressman — he was 
a swell dancer — used to wait 
for her on the corner. 

. . . . Of course. You 
knew it when you heard she 
was pretty. 

Mother raged and cursed 
above the tubs. Dad took the 
swing-door road to temporary 
oblivion. But the baby came 
in due course, according to the 
placid, crushing inevitableness 
of almighty law. And Emme- 
line named her Queenie. 

She was a wee, claw-fingered 

By Betty D. Thornley 

Illustrated by Marion Long 


atom with huge brown eyes and 
a wail. Even when I saw the 
City of Toronto fighting for her 
life some five months later, she 
was scarcely bigger than some 
of the much-desired little ones 
that come into a world all pink 
ribbons and white lace, with an 
announcement card ready in 
send to the tip-toed Clan. 

"Git rid of her, you — " roared 
Emmeline's father. 

"Send her to the Sisters. 
They'll look after her," advised 
her mother, staring down at 
the skeleton of unwantedness. 
"She'll only be in your wa\ ." 

Emmeline herself didn't want 
her. Where was the six a week 
to come from if she stayed with 
Queenie ? And what would 
happen to Queenie if she weni 
to work ? That tragedy is as 
old as Desire, and Drink and 
Death and all the other forces 
that had gone to the calling of 
this brown-eyed scrap of soul- 
dust from the void. Once, she 
would have gone back, a hank 
of waste from the Life-loom, noi 
even Emmeline caring. 

But here comes the difference. 
Into the solemn, sordid little 
conclave about her there stepped 
a new actor, a great shadow\' 
presence called the City of 

Toronto, represented by the birth- 
registration man who green-cards all 
the Queenies, wanted and not wanted. 
The baby in the dirty blue-and- 
white checked rags had been a soul 
before. Now she was a citizen. 
Wherefore in due time another emissary 
of the City called in the person of one 
of the thirty-six Child Welfare nurses 
•who guard the coasts of life against 
the raking guns of disease and destruc- 
tion in Toronto. Presently, Queenie 
vanished from the 
steamy three rooms 
and became part of 
the City's big, airy 

"I never saw 
anybody with less 
mother love in all 
my life," the nurse 
said later to the 
reporter, as both 
stood over the big- 
eyed baby in her 
white iron crib. 
"Emmeline was 
crushed and sullen 
and defiant, just 
like an animal that 
has been kicked. 
To her way of 
thinking, Queenie 
had brought all this 
ui)on her, and so 
she hated Queenie. 
But I made up my 
mind that the only 
way to save Em- 
meline was to 
make her want to 
save Queenie. And 

she's doing it!" Queenie was trans- 
ferred to a Creche, where, for ten 
cents a day, she swung in the 
cleanest crib her guardian angel had 
ever known in the family. In the 
morning she was called on by her friend 
the City nurse, who saw to the making 
up of the brand of modified milk the 
doctor ordered. All day long she was 
cared for by another nurse hired by 
the private philanthropists in co-oper- 
ation with the Health Department, 
■whose line of duty-appeal was Creche 
management. At night, Emmeline 
came in from the glove factory, paid 
her tiny dues and listened, apathetic- 
ally at first, but gradually with more 
and more interest, to the nurse's 
helper's account of the cute ways of 
the crib-occupant. Queenie was a 
personage here, it seemed. Queenie 
had the prettiest eyes in the Creche. 
Queenie's weight-card showed a zig- 
zagging upward line. Queenie, de- 
spite her emaciation, was a good baby 
who didn't cry, 'least, not often, as 
you might say. 

And she, Emmeline, was Queenie's 

Haltingly, surreptitiously at first, 


as though ashamed to be discovered 
practicing, Emmeline tried the dear- 
foolish baby words that came so easily 
to those other women who were not 
Queenie's mother. She put her hand 
on Queenie's, that hand that made the 
gloves so quickly, and couldn't afford 
to wear them. Queenie's tiny fingers 
closed around Emmeline's. 

And even if she didn't have a 
wedding ring, and even if some folks 
did look at her under their eyelashes, 


Queenie didn't. Queenie loved her. 
And she loved Queenie. 

Of course to the Health Department, 
the baby without a name is the ex- 
ception. We chose her to lead the 
line of those to whom the thirty-six 
White-Caps minister, because she was 
one of the tiniest and the most needy. 
There are many other little Toronto- 
nians however, rich in Yiddish mother- 
words, Italian smiles or just-out 
Cockney affection, who need the nurse 
about as much as Queenie did, since 
love alone can't always read the 

For the purpose of saving all the 
babies for the City, Toronto is divided 
into three self-governing districts, the 
map of which you may see at the Head 
Office in the City Hall, if any one of 
the madly-typing, deftly-filing, or 
earnestly-phoning young ladies can 
take the time to show it to you. 

North Toronto, the Junction, Park- 
dale and the main city down to College 
Street, west of Sherbourne, form the 
district known as Hillcrest, whose 
headquarters up in a northern police 
station carries a 'phone that we wished 
was self-answering when we tried to 


interview Miss Supervisor later on in 
the day. Here the cohorts gather, 
half in the morning, half at noon, to 
report, take counsel, and drink what 
tea the 'phone allows. 

The western part of the city, known 
as Woodbine, has also its headquarters, 
supervisor and nurses, as has the red- 
marked plague-centre that makes up 
the third District and includes the 
historic Ward, and the still-worse- 
crowded section to the south. 

Each District 
possesses two 
Neigh borhood 
Workers' associa- 
tions which meet 
in the headquart- 
ers once a fort- 
night. Here the 
churches, the 
charitable organi- 
zations good, bad 
and hit-or-miss, to- 
gether with the 
settlements, meet 
with the nurses to 
discuss for ex- 
ample, 3 765,— 
otherwise tlie Mal- 
by family whose 
misfortunes have 
put them on file. 
The first postulant 
here was Martha, 
now 3765 A, who 
came into the card 
catalogue through 
the Infant Welfare 
Department, what 
time she decided 
to enter the world. 
Patricia was Exhibit B, for the same 
reason. Linda, the mother, is now 
C, and soon a little wailing D will be 
added to the subjects denoted by the 
white individual cards that crowd 
in behind the big blue one that 
stands for the Malby family as a unit. 
If there are no complications, and 
Concelto, the corporation - laborer - 
father doesn't drink or run out of coal, 
the Neighborhood Association will 
never hear of 3765, which will be of 
interest only to the Medical side. But 
in case of want, the charitable organi- 
zations are given a push forward 
or a pull back, as the case seems to 
warrant and if necessary Ugo, Francis 
and Dora, the school-age Malbyites 
are fresh-aired, childrens'-sheltered, or 
sent to the clinic. 

That word clinic has confused but 
pleasant memories for me. The Health 
Department of the City of Toronto, 
in its fatherly interest in all who need 
assistance, prescribed a taxi to the 
reporter and her nurse-mentor so 
that they could see the clinics — not 
all of them, since there are twenty-one 
for well babies, not to mention those 
for the sick-in-general and those others 


again where the little chalk-faced 
tuberculars go — but just enough of 
them so that CANADA MONTHLY 
readers should understand the what 
and the why, the whom-for and the 
how-much-gained of this great Battle 
for the Babies. 

The next step planned in the brain 
that moves the Health Armies is that 
there shall be a nurse with an auto 
whose work shall consist solely in 
taking up the cases of the ncwly- 
arriveds so soon as they are registered. 
She will see the mother, leave literature, 
instruct verbally where necessary, and 
hand her a list of the times and places 
of the Well-Baby Clinics. The mother 
will then have the free advice of spec- 
ially trained workers from the start 
and if the vulnerable spot in young 
Achilles isn't discovered and promptly 
dealt with, it won't be the City's fault. 

At present, notification of this sort 
is in the hands of the overworked 
regular staff nurses, but despite that 
and despite the fact that some of the 
clinics are held in such unintended 
places as school annexes, playgrounds 
and public libraries, their number 
grows so fast that there's no use print- 
ing a list of them. Better still, the 



attendance at each grows daily. And 
young Achilles personally grows like 
a weed. 

The University Settlement is in the 
very heart of the dirtiest, highest- 
rented, one-room-pcr-family district 
and here we went to see a clinic in 
I^rogress. This one, though in charge 
of the Settlement, has a City nurse in 

While the white-gowned doctor 
listens to Angelina's voluble, two- 
handed account of tiie internal dis- 
turbances of young Tony, the nurse 
weighs Angelina 2nd, a stirring five- 
months-old clothed in a gold ring and 
a smile. Big sister Teresina sits hard 
by with the weight card. The smiler 
has gained, it appears, and the whole 
family will rejoice to-night and crow 
over those Yiddishers next door whose 
Sammy ain't done near so well. 

Out in the hall waits young Isabella 
in the arms of that other Isabella 
from Liverpool who worked ten years 
in an eleven-hours-a-day button fac- 
tory before she got married and came 
to the Colonies. Isabella Junior-ette 
is entered away down at the City Hall 
as having first appeared as an out- 
patient at the Sick Children's Hospital. 
That was a digestive 
disturbance the nurse 
says. Then she at- 
tended the Hospital's 
Well-Baby Clinic but 
it was such a long 
car ride that she was 
transferred to the 
Settlement as being 
nearer home. She has 
attended here for six 
weeks, "reg'lar as the 
day come round, 
miss," her mother 
tells us. Despite 
that, she has just 
held her own. In- 
deed, her weight card 
looks like a ballroom 
floor compared to the 
fireman's ladder effect 
of Angelina's. If the 
Health Department 
hadn't been on its 
job, there wouldn't 
have been any Isa- 
bella to chew those 
blue bonnet strings 
and do her best to 
tip over the cup o' 
tea that the Settle- 
ment will give the 
big Isabella later on. 
The mother-insti- 
tution for all the 
clinics is of course 
the Hospital for Sick 
Children, whose 400 
beds and out-patient 
department and milk- 
pasteurizing plant 

have saved so many Isabellas. 
Here the City does the visiting. 
When a case is discharged, if it were 
not followed up, like as not the con- 
ditions that produced the first illness 
would issue in a second. So the city 
nurse walks her dainty little shoes up 
the alley-way between the stable and 
the Greek restaurant and when she 
finds the little rear house, backed up 
into the big manure pile, she also finds 
the cause of her patient's downfall. 
Of course it doesn't happen very often 
that there is a literal manure pile. 
The sanitary inspector sees to that. 
Probably it's a dirty milk bottle, or 
a damp floor, or perhaps it's just that 
Ontario didn't abolish the bar when 
she got the chance. Anyhow, the 
nurse pitches in and if the family has 
never appeared in the file before it 
comes in now and all the Health- 
Department-directed activities that 
centre in the clinics and the Neighbor- 
hood Associations, are turned loose on 
the new find. 

But this is really ahead of the story, 
for the baby must be a patient investi- 
gated medically, before it becomes a 
Social Service case, investigated via 
the street car. 

On the big airy verandahs and in 
the Wards of the Hospital for Sick 
Children we saw the little pinch-faced 
mites that were too much for the Well- 
Baby Clinics — Clara who looked like 
a pale little corpse, and Lily, too weak 
to cry, and Ernest, recovering, with 
his thumb in his mouth("Oh, naughty!" 
said the nurse), and James who really 
wasn't sick at all. James had been 
looked after by another mother with 
nine children — his own having skipped 
— and when he wasn't just exactly 
well, his second parent-by-chance 
packed him off to the Hospital, 
where the tall nurses argued around 
his crib but let him stay, 'cause of 
his curls. 

The milk department of the Hospital 
provides 500 bottles a day of specially 
prepared nourishment for depots in 
town. This milk is "modified" in 
different ways, mainly according to 
five formulae, though forty little cus- 
tomers have theirs individually pre- 
scribed, written on cards and pinned 
about the wall so that all can see that 
the Jones baby takes so many ounces 
of whatyoucallit, as against Frederico 
Gianelli who would look like a hat 
rack in no time unless he got his dope 
in inverse ratio as to ingredients. 

The problem of cleaning the bottles 
is an extra-special italicized proposition 
since many of them go to and fro from 
homes where, if a bottle were clean 
it would feel positively stuck up ! 
Which of course, introduces a still red- 
headeder problem, viz: — how to teach 
the mothers of the bottle users to 
Omtinued on page 136. 




SAVIORS OF civilization" 

The Mystery of the Jade Earring 

By Henry Kitchell Webster 

Author of "The Butterfly," "The 
Whispering Man," etc. 

Illustrated by Percy Edward Anderson 


Jeffrey, a successful artist, undertakes to paint for the "queer, rich, invisible [Miss Meredith" a portrait of her dead niece taken from a 
photograph. For some strange reason, the commission gets on his nerves, and he goes abroad suddenly, without ever having seen .Mi-~ 
Meredith, but only her confidential agent and physician. Dr. Crow. 

The story opens at the point where he returns to find his friend Drew (who tells the tale) at home with Madeline and Gwendolyn, 
discussing a mysterious inurder. Oddly enough, the murdered girl — a singularly beautiful woman with masses of fair hair — was found 
frozen in solid ice, clad in a ball-gown which had been put on her after she was shot through the heart. Next morning Jeflfrey telephones f m 
Drew, and when he hastens anxiously to the studio, says the portrait has been stolen. By a bit of amateur detective work, they find tin 
man who stole the frame and he confesses, but swears that he never touched the painting. On their return to the studio, Jeffrey learns 
Togo, his valet, had removed the picture from the frame, but they cannot find it. Jeffrey relates some of his uncanny experiences in iii-. 
Paris studio, one of which was seeing a light in his window, and on going in quietly to surprise the intruder, hears a door shut and finds i 
candle still warm but — a vacant room. Jeflfrey goes to Etaples to get rid of the cobwebs and regain his nerve. Keturning he finds in his stud in 
an unfinished portrait of a beautiful girl, with the paint still wet, and giving evidence that the artist had painted her own likeness from a mirror. 
Next morning the portrait had disappeared. He decided to leave Paris, and on the night before his departure was standing on a bridge when he 
noticed a woman leaning against the rail. The hood about her head fell and — it was the girl of the portrait! 

CHAPTER IV.— Continued. 
"Don't exaggerate," I said sharply. 
"I don't doubt anything that you ha\-e 
reported to me. I can't explain it, I'll 
agree. But there is an explanation. 
We may find it out^some day, or we 
may never find it out. But the thing 
really happened. I'm going to sticic 
to that and I want you to." 

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't 
told you yet. I've been afraid to tell 
you. Because, when I tell you, you 
won't believe any more than I do. 
Listen to this : Dr. Crow comes 
around and arranges for me to paint a 
portrait for Miss Meredith from a pho- 
tograph — a photograph of a girl who's 
dead, and he takes the photograph out 
of its paper wrapping and shows it to 
me. And what do you suppose I see 
there ? Whose face. Drew ? Guess — 
guess whose face that was." 

I stared at him and my own dry 
throat could hardly utter the question 
— the wild, fantastic question his words 

"Not — Not — " I whispered. 

He nodded. "The same face. The 
very same face that I had seen on the 
bridge, that I'd found painted during 
my absence there in my studio — the 
face that had been reflected in my 
old mirror while the sitter herself 
painted it." 

He stood up and thrust out his hands 
at me with a kind of feverish energy. 
"Do you believe me now? Haven't 


you any misgivings yourself? Haven't 
you got right now in the back of your 
head the idea that you'll run around 
and talk to Pritchard or Foster, or 
some other of those big nerve and 
insanity specialists ?" 

That shot of his came uncannily 
near the mark, but I thrust the mis- 
giving out of my mind as soon as it 
showed itself there. 

"Not a bit of it," said I. "But you 
will be a patient for one of those fel- 
lows if you let yourself go like this. 
Look here ! You painted the portrait 
from that photograph, didn't you ? 
You could see straight enough to put 
it on canvas and to satisfy Miss Mere- 
dith with the result." 

"Oh, my eyes and hands are all 
right," said Jeffrey. "If there's a kink 
anywhere, it's farther inside than that." 
"You say it was Miss Meredith's 
niece you painted a portrait of? How 
recent was the photograph?" 

Jeffrey gave a laugh that was half a 
shiver. "Well, that's the last ques- 
tion," he said. "That brings out the 
whole tale. The photograph, Drew, 
was taken in Paris four years ago. It 
was three years ago that the girl died. 
She died in Paris of smallpox — during 
the epidemic three years ago. And, 
well — you can verify the other date 
yourself. It was two years ago that 
you and Madeline visited Paris, wasn't 
it? You're quite sure of that ?" 
There was a ring at the door just 

then and we heard Togo, the Jap, ad- 
mitting some one into the anteroom. 



When Togo opened the studio 
door, Jeffrey summoned him in with 
a nod and with a gesture told him lu 
shut the door after him. 

"I can't see anybody to-day," iic 
said. "There's no telling what .sort 
of a fool I'll make of myself." Then 
he turned to Togo. "Who is it, 
Togo ?" 

"He Dr. Crow," said Togo. "He 
come one time before this morning. 
You out. He wait. Go way. Come 
back. Here now." 

"I won't see him," said Jeffrey 
"That's all there is about it." 

"If he's already been here once," 
said I, "he's probably got something 
important to say, and if Togo sends 
him away he'll come back a little 

"Look here," said Jeffrey; "you 
see him yourself. Find out what he 
wants. If he asks to see the picture, | 
you can tell him you don't know where | 
it is. Tell him I've been having trou- 
ble with the frame — anything you like, 
but get rid of him for two or three 
days. If you're right about it, if I'm 
not crazy, if the picture's just beci; 
stolen in an ordinary, human way and 
from ordinary human motives, we can 
probably get it back. Maybe we 



sha'n't have to let the old lady know it 
ever was lost. Anyhow, tell him some 
cock-and-bull story that will keep him 
quiet for a while. While you're doing 
that I'll go down and see my friend 
Richards of police headquarters." 

"I thought you hadn't much opinion 
^f the police when it came to detective 
work," said I. 

"No more I have," was Jeffrey's an- 
swer. "But an ordinary theft doesn't 
call for detective work. The police 
know who the thieves are; they know 
the fences and what particular sort of 
fence makes a specialty of a particular 
sort of stolen property. And if it's a 
case where they are really interested, 
they go and get it and bring it back. 
I've done Richards many a good turn 
before now, in my old newspaper days, 
and I've an idea he'll do what he can 
for me." 

He was struggling into his overcoat 
before he had finished speaking, and at 
the end he moved toward the door that 
led out into the corridor. On reaching 
the door he stopped impulsively and 
I ame back to me. 

"I don't know, old man," he said, 
"Whether you're the greatest liar in 
the world or not. But you're a Good 
Samaritan, anyway. If you'd taken 
my story the way anybody could have 
been expected to take it, and if you'd 
said any of the ordinary, so-called, 
comforting things about nerves and 
overwork and so on, I don't know what 
I'd have done." 

"I haven't done much yet," said I. 
"But it's my afTair now as much as it 
is yours. We'll see it out together." 

He caught my hand in a grip that 
fairly hurt. "Stay here till I come 
back," he said, as he turned again to- 
ward the door. "I'll ring when I come 
and find out from Togo if the doctor's 
gone. If he hasn't I'll wait in the 
anteroom. You show him out this 

"All right," said I, and the next mo- 
ment I heard his footsteps echoing 
down the hall. 

It wasn't until I'd directed Togo to 
show Dr. Crow into the study that I 
realized I had no excuse to give for 
being there, or for asking his business 
on Jeffrey's behalf. But a lawyer is 
always in need of explanations for 
things, and I have found an excellent 
expedient, when all others fail, in tell- 
ing the simple truth. It's apt to be 
quite as misleading, provided you 
really want to mislead anybody, as the 
most ingenious fiction. 

Dr. Crow entered in a quick, eager 
sort of way, looked around the room 
for Jeffrey, and then, seeing that I was 
the only person in the room, stopped, 
hesitated, and then spoke in a tone 
obviously puzzled. 

"I — I want to speak to Mr. Jeffrey," 
he said. "I — understood his man to 

tell me he was here. Indeed, I thought 
I heard his voice." 

"He was here," said I. "He only 
went out this moment." 

"That's singular," said the doctor. 
"Didn't his man say I wanted to see 
him ?" 

"Yes," said I. "But I'd noticed 
before that he seemed rather upset, 
and, on hearing that he had another 
visitor, said abruptly that he could see 
no one, asked me to stay and see you, 
and bolted. I suppose his parting in- 
junction entitles me to ask if I can be 
of any service to you. I'll try to do 
anything you ask me to, except explain 
Mr. Jeffrey's departure. I'm afraid 
that's beyond me." 

While I talked I was recalling to 
mind Jeffrey's description of the man 
that he had given us the night before, 
the rather charming young doctor who 
had arranged for the portrait between 
him and Miss Meredith. He fully justi- 
fied 's Jeffrey's adjective. A good- 
looking young chap — dark, slender, 
very bright-eyed. His smile came 
quickly, when he wanted it — almost too 
quickly, so that it reminded me a little 
of switching on the electric light. 

"The advantage of being an artist," 
he said amiably, "is 
that one doesn't have 
to explain things like 
that. Temperament 
will cover anything 
— in the case of as 
gifted a man as Jef- 
frey, anything he 
could possibly take it 
into his head to do." 

Illogically enough, 
I resented this a little 
and felt an inclina- 
tion to justify my 
friend's action by 
taking my caller much 
more fully into our 
confidence than I had 
intended to do. What 
stopped me was the 
idea that perhaps this 
was exactly what the 
doctor had intended. 

"I'm afraid I 
sha'n't be much good 
as asubstitu te," 
said I. 

"Why," said the 
doctor, "it is possible 
that you'll do better 
than the man himself. 
You don't mind my 
asking a few ques- 
tions ?" 

"Not a bit," said 
I. "I'll answer any- 
thing I can. Sit down, 
won't you ?" 

He didn't take the 
chair I indicated, but 
walked across the 

room and drew up another one. I 
took it that the manoeuver was exe- 
cuted to give him a better chance to 
look around the studio — possibly to see 
whether the portrait of the girl in the 
satin gown was in sight anywhere. 

"I am a substitute myself,'^ he said, 
when he was settled in the chair he 
had selected. "Jeffrey painted a por- 
trait for a — client, or patient, or rela- 
tive of mine, I don't know just which 
to say; she comes under all three cate- 
gories — Miss Meredith." 

"I didn't know you were related to 
her," I observed. 

He shot a quick look at me. "I see 
you know about her already," said he. 
"All the better. I'm not a relative in 
any strict sense," he went on. "A sort 
of half-nephew by marriage, perhaps. 
We're all so mixed up that it is difficult 
to keep such matters straight. How- 
ever, it's a close enough family con- 
nection to justify me in going rather 
outside of the strict duties of a medical 

"Justify ?" I questioned. 

"Why, in the main," he said, "I 
hold that a doctor should be a doctor 
to his patients and nothing else. The 
Continued on page 119. 



In the Forefront 


Colonel Steele 

The genial D. O. C, who is not afraid 

of anything — not even of 


By Nan Mouiton 

GIVEN an appearance like a forti- 
fication, impregnable, protec- 
tive, bulking four-square; given 
a name like the flash of a bright 
sword in the sun — Sam Steele; given 
a father a captain in the Royal Navy 
through the Napoleonic War; wouldn't 
such a man just naturally be bom 
for battles ? Colonel Steele says not; 
he did not inherit military instincts, 
did not cherish military ambitions, and 
his being a soldier is just the result of 
an accident. That accident was the 
Fenian Raid. 

If Colonel Steele was not bom a 
soldier, did not elect to be a soldier, 
then it remains a clear case of fore- 
ordination. He has looked upon the 
Indian when red, upon the Boer when 
"slim," upon the miner rushing into 
the Klondyke, gold-mad and lawless, 
eight hundred boats-load of him in 
full sight at once on eleven miles of 
Lake Bennett, upon the Chinaman 
outrageous along the Rand, and upon 
the publisher, copy-hungry. Colonel 
Steele is just not afraid of anything, 
not even of consequences. 

So he has in his possession a Com- 
mander of the Bath and Member of the 
Victorian Order from the South African 
war, the general service medal, medal 
and clasps of the Red River Expedi- 
tion and North -West Rebellion, 
Queen's medal and four clasps for 
the first phase of the South African 
war. King's medal and all the clasps 
for the second phase of the South 
African war. He was mentioned 
several times in dispatches. He is 
Honorary Lieutenant Colonel of the 
British Army. He has every military 
certificate — infantry, cavalry, artillery. 
Besides dash and daring and fear- 
lessness, Colonel Steele has the gift of 
organization and administration. The 


annals of the North West Mounted 
Police of Canada testify to this gift 
across the whole epic sweep of prairie 
for nearly four decades. Alter the 
rush of ninety-eight. Superintendent 
Steele organized and commanded the 
whole mounted force of the Yukon 
and was a Member of the Council for 
the government of the Territory. 
Again, in South Africa, he organized 
the South African Constabulary as 
he had done his own divisions in the 
West, and the green-and-gold of the 
S. A. C. stood throughout those 
troubled States for the same protection 
and efficiency and British justice as 
is set forth by the scarlet tunics of 
the R. N. W. M. P. Back in Canada, 
in 1907, he organized Military Dis- 
trict No. 13, in Alberta, and since 
1909 has been D. O. C. of M. D. No. 
10, with headquarters at Fort Os- 
borne, Winnipeg. Here he has in- 
creased the militia from ten units in 
1908 to forty units at the present time. 

No knowledge of fear, an organizing 
and executive genius, so far, so much. 
Add now, judgment, keen, depend- 
able, human, cool, quick. When a 
man has to think, decide and act all 
in one flash, in a primitive life where 
restless Indians, whiskey-smugglers, 
rough railway camps and gold-drunk 
prospectors kaleidoscope, his judg- 
ment must needs be swift and illumina- 
ting as the cut of lightning. 

There was a time along the Rand 
when the Boers were disarmed and 
the yellow men from the mines ran 
amuck doing pleasant little things 
like cutting throats. There is a story 
that Colonel Steele pointed out to 
Lord Milner and his Council, in one 
of his characteristic brief and un- 
adorned notes — a stiff, straight word 
or two to a line, a few black, wide 
lines to a page — that the Boer farmers 
around Johannesburg were in want 
and that a few shot-guns, judiciously 
distributed, would help the larder of 
the vrow. Lord Milner read between 
the lines, (there's lots of space between 
the brusque lines of the Colonel's 
communications) smiled, and sent out 
the shot-guns. The Chinamen on 
their next visits did not cut any brown 

Boer throats. It was at Colonel 
Steele's suggestion that the natives 
in Natal and the Eastern Transvaal 
were disarmed after the Boer War. 
Lord Milner approved the suggestion 
and the S. A. C. accomplished the di-- 
arming, which left the Boer farmt r- 
safe from any future native uprisings 
or attack. 

Then the Colonel has an irremediable 
taste for the truth, which makes for 
absolute reliability. It was during 
the building of the Canadian Pacific 
Railway, when the N. W. M. P. were 
policing the construction camps in 
the Rockies, that, at Golden City, a 
notorious contractor, drinking and 
truculent, was twice snatched from 
members of the Police by the turbu- 
lent mob. Inspector Steele was on a 
sick-bed at the barracks. Twice his 
men had posted back for instructions, 
and, a third time, on a narrow bridge, 
a sergeant and a couple of men were 
trying to hold their prisoner against a 
mad crowd brandishing knives and 
guns. Suddenly, down the road from 
the barracks, roused by the shots and 
the shouting, pounded the Inspector 
himself. Big and grim, sword in one 
hand, pistol in the other, he faced the 
mob at the bridge. "The first man 
who steps on this bridge dies," he said. 
That crowd knew Sam Steele. Sam 
Steele always kept his word. The 
mob sobered, melted away, the ser- 
geant secured his prisoner, and the 
Inspector went back to his bed. 

When a man goes about with all 
this for history', his reputation puts 
moral force behind his very name. 
Manitoba and Ontario were having a 
family disturbance once down at Rat 
Portage. Sir John MacDonald asked 
Inspector Steele to take a detail of 
men and settle the fuss. Troubles 
ceased quickly and matters were amic- 
ably adjusted the very minute the 
two governments heard who was com- 

One would not suspect Colonel 
Steele of being versatile; he looks 
bronze and impassive as Buddha him- 
self. But these are a few of his Yukon 
phases. He went up with his men in 
ninety-seven to the head of White and 

Chilcoot Pass. The duties of the 
Police were to generally superintend 
the movements of the miners — they 
had charge of everything In the upper 
Kootenay. At the end, Superintend- 
ent Steele was thanked by the Govern- 
or-General-in-Council and made a 
Member of the Council, as has been 
told. In between, he was Customs 
Officer, Magistrate, Health Officer and 
a walking Bureau of Information. 
Anything anybody did not know, ask 
the Police ! All this, besides cleaning 
up the Yukon and making a decent 
living-place out of a hell on earth. 
That is how the Superintendent, in 
one of his reports, describes Skagway: 
murder and robbery, shell games, 
illicit whiskey, shooting frays in the 
very shadow of the barracks. But 
from headquarters at Dawson, the 
personality of a man and the standards 
of a force went out again and leavened 
with law a land of gold and snow. 

Naturally, with all his unorthodox 
frontier experience. Colonel Steele's 
ideals do not march with those of the 
rigid, exclusive, military caste system. 
He may be a martinet as to discipline : 
everything done thoroughly, every- 
body on time, no loose ends, no sloppy 
work, no malingering, obedience and 
duty first. After that, the Colonel 
believes the Commanding Officer 
should be a parent to his men, that 
from the newest recruit up through 
the N. C. O.'s and the subs and the 
regimental O. C.'s to the staff and the 
D. O. C, there should be the con- 
necting link of personal touch and 

He believes in hard work and lots 
f of it. Why not, when, back in seventy- 
four, it was he of whom Colonel Jarvis 
wrote that, on that dreadful march 
to Edmonton, he did the manual 
labor of at least two men ? He be- 
lieves, of all things, in impartiality, 
in the barracks being a real home for 
the soldiers, and in maintaining a high 
standard of honor among his men. 
Colonel Steele has always been of a 
conspicuous personal honor himself, 
so his men have something to measure 
up to. He wants each man he accepts 
to be capable of becoming an instructor. 
"Get them good and keep them good," 
sums up his way with his men. The 
success of his methods is testified to 
in one of General Buller's despatches 
during the Boer War. "The Strath- 
cona Horse," he said, "rode well, shot 
well, fought well, and were admirably 
commanded by an officer (Colonel 
Steele) who maintained strict dis- 
cipline without severity." 

Any "Who's Who" will give you 
dates and outlines and events of 
Colonel Steele's career. But it would 
take a book for the stories that cluster 
round every year of his life since the 
day he went, a boy~of sixteen, from 


his home in the country in Simcoe 
County, Ontario, up to Toronto to 
train as a soldier. (His father was 
the first member for Simcoe County 
and sat in the first Canadian Parlia- 
ment.) He has built forts along the 
north, patrolled the border, hunted 
buffalo with the braves of Sitting Bull, 
slept in the snow, suppressed formid- 
able strikes during the construction 
of the railway, escorted Commissioners 
on Treaty Makings with the Sioux 


and Blackfoot Indians, and travelled 
from Gilbert Plains to Fort Walsh in 
the foot-hills the first time white men 
ever made that trip, taking observa- 
tions of latitude and longitude. He 
was on that first historic, memorable, 
extraordinary march in seventy-four 
into the North-West, establishing 
posts. He has seen Indians gathered 
ominously even unto nine thousand 
lodges. He was on the pack-trail 
Continued on page 115. 






The mistress of Deancroft, who comes of a family of fighters 

The Chief Knitter 

Mrs. Gooderham, of the I. O. D. E., 
who works for "Our Boys" 

By Nellie L. Rea 

THE Daughters of the Empire is 
an organization with a noble 
name — a name with the sound 
of trumpets in it, a stately- 
ceremonial, three-feathers- and-a-train 
sort of name. 

In peace, it is a thing to be sought 

after to be daughter of so vast, so 
powerful a combine of nations. But 
it isn't until the bugles that used to 
herald the entrance of a Governor- 
General and the guns that fired a 
birthday salute, become the bugles 
and the guns of hideous, world-wast- 
ing. Empire-smashing WAR that the 
daughters as well as the khaki-clad 
sons, have the chance to the full, to 
live up to their name. 

Foremost among them is Mrs. Albert 
E. Gooderham, President of"' the 
Imperial Order Daughters of the Em- 
pire, who has been a wonderful example 
and inspiration to Canadian women, 

who has given so generously of hi r 
energy to public charities and who-c 
broadness of mind and forgetfulnc ^-. 
of self in the national crisis, ha\r 
endeared her to everyone who ii;i> 
been privileged to work with her. 

That Mrs. Gooderham should come 
to the height of her usefulness in 
Wartime is quite according to her 
descent and upbringing. 

Her girlhood days were spent in 
.Amhcrstburg, and Windsfir, Ontario, 
her father being Captain Duncansoii, 
a Highland Scotchman, who came u, 
Canada when quite a boy. In tin- 
town of his adoption he met and mar- 
ried Miss DeLisle, of French origin, 
and thus in the veins of Mrs. Gcxxler- 
ham, flows the blofxl of both grv.a 
branches of the Canadian [x.'oplc. 

Later the family moved to WindM.r. 
but it was not until Miss Duncan^un 
visited Toronto that she met the k '': 
lant soldier who is now Colonel 't 
the Royal Grenadiers, having ben 
gazetted into the regiment twcnt\ 
iiine years ago. the day the eldest ><>u 
(now Captain Gooderham) was Ixirn. 
From the beginning Mrs. Gooderham 
took a keen interest in her husbarni's 
regiment and is highly reverenced 1 \ 
the officers and men in it. 

There are five children of the Go. 1- 
erham family now living, the two hiw 
being military men and the daught. rs 
all members of the I. O. D. E. In 
Windsor, Ontario, there is a chapter 
of the organization bearing Mrs. Good- 
erham's name. This chapter con- 
sists largely of young girls whoM- 
mothers are'friends of Mrs. Gooderham 
and as a matter of sentiment thi\- 
named this chapter in honor of her. 

It was fitting that Mrs. Gooder- 
ham 's public work should begin m 
connection with the Red Cross Society 
when the first contingent went to 
South Africa at the time of the Boer 
War, and she has been on the Council 
ever since. At the present time al- 
most every Chapter of the I. O. D. E., 
is engaged in visiting and caring for 
the wives and children of the men at 
the front. Some of them need help 
financially while others perhaps are 
strangers and in need of a woman's 
sympathy and interest in their loneli- 
ness. And who shall say whether the 
homesick little Englishwoman or her 
comforting Canadian sister will re- 
ceive the greater benefit from the 

All Canada has read of how Miss 
Flummer suggested a movement to 
raise money for a Hospital Ship to be 
given from the women of the Domin- 
ion; how these women all worked for 
the sheer patriotism of the thing and 
how within a week every Chapter of 
the I. O. D. E., responded, even as 
far north as Dawson City, west to 
Continued on page 119. 



'The Lamplighter" 

Sir Adam Beck, who tamed Rosebery 
and harnessed Niagara Falls 

By John F. Charteris 

A DIPLOMATIST averts war as 
long as possible. After that, a 
soldier steps in and conducts it. 
The two are as temperamental- 
ly dissimilar as water and fire. The 
diplomatist works by erosion, slowly: 
the soldier, by eruption, and woe 
betide Pompeii ! 

In politics, diplomatists are the rule, 
suave Machiavellis who stroke the 
country with one hand while with 
the other they work the vacuum 
cleaner on the country's pocket book. 
When a political Cromwell heaves up 
out of the mists, however, he scraps 
the strokcr as well as the cleanei". 
He is like Moses with the Tables of 
Stone. You carry the Law in your 
heart, his law, or you get it broken 
over your head. You can take your 
choice. If you won't obey him, he 
turns to something that will — land 
values or railroads or^the secrets of 

Adam Beck was bom near Berlin, 
Ontario, of German stock. Twenty- 
five or thirty years ago he drifted into 
the lumber business, bought a box 
factory in Lcmdon and settled down 
to find out all'there was to be ascer- 
tained about*" wood. He sharpened 
his own saws, did this serious-minded, 
f|uiet-eyed young man whose only 


The political Mcwes, who«e law jrou carry in your heart, or get it brolten over your head 

capital was hisjenergy and his ability 
to bring that energy to a diamond- 
drill objective ;._ he bought second 
hand machinery ^and fixed it up after 
hours; he kept his own books; he 

Then, because of his very con- 
centration, he faced a threatened 

"What you need is horseback rid- 
ing," the doctor remarked one night. 

The future turfman and repre- 
sentative of Canada at the largest 
Horse Shows of England, knew nothing 
about horses, had never owned a single 
-pccimen. But he sought out a livery 
stable on Uundas Street and picked 
up a hack that was tired conveying 
folks to the station or the graveyard. 
First, he hired the animal. Then, 
after he had studied the subject in his 
;isual methodical fnanner, he bought 

"That horse was the famous high 



jumper Rosebery, never beaten except 
by Mrs. Langtry's Filemaker," said a 
man wIkj had watched the doctor's 
prescription emerge from his hack- 
hood; "he was shown all over Canada, 
won prizes enough to fill a room, was 
sold for a large sum, and, when he 
finally met with an accident, was a 
dead loss to somebody else, rather 
than to his discoverer." 

After that, Mr. Beck bought horses 
right and left, picking each with the 
care with which he did everything. 
The prescription, however, entailed 
something still better than fame in 
jockey land, for it was due to their 
mutual interest in racing that Rose- 
bery's owner and the lovely Miss 
Ottaway met in Hamilton and decided 
that, although they still preferred to 
keep two stables, they wouldn't mind 
combining homes. 

All this time, the Sir-Adam-to-be 
hadn't emerged in Mr. Beck. Politics 
didn't interest him then. It doesn't 
now. The mere pleasure of persuad- 
ing an electorate that they wanted 
him to run favorite would never have 
drawn the turf enthusiast into the 

But in London-the-less there was a 
.problem to be solved, one January 
day. Victoria Hospital hadn't been 
well managed. It had been run for 
the medical fraternity rather than for 
the patients, it was averred. The 
situation needed a strong man as 
Hospital Trustee, to apply those busi- 
ness methods which are so hard to 
obtain in public-owned utilities. 

Would Mr. Beck stand for the 
office ? 

He would and did . And his election- 
cry, "The Hospital for the People!" 
not only brought him a majority of 
2,600 on polling day when men de- 
pended on5|[his mere promise; it 

brought him ll-.c Mayoralty 
when in 1902 he consented 
to accept it. 

"His regime was charac- 
terized by his determination 
to have the Ijusiness of the 
city conducted without favor 
or possible suspicion of 
graft," .said a man who was 
associated with him through- 
out his term of office. 

"Why does So and So 
want the chairmanship of 
No. 2 Committee ?" asked 
an also-wanting alderman, 
"he's rich !" 

Under Mr. Beck-'s manage- 
ment the coveted plum 
reduced itself to the size 
and sweetness of a goose- 
berry. Peter, who desired 
to serve his country, was 
doubtless satisfied, but 
Judas, the collection-plater, 
had crepe on his arm. . 

Not only must the alder- 
man keep to the strict letter 
of the law that said no man 
of his ilk could take a city 
contract. He must even 
forswear the chance of be- 
devilling the Fair Board or 
the Hospital Trustees or any 
other body receiving money from the 
city. One such incident did occur, 
anent a public building to be shingled. 
Whereupon Moses the Mayor calmly 
selected the stone bearing the Eighth 
Commandment and put a tin roof on 
the alderman. 

But one city was too small a field 
for Mr. Beck. After providing the 
town of his adoption with a Public 
Health Institute and an up to date 
water system, for whose financial 
burden he assumed all risk imtil the 
Continued on page 124. 


St. Agnes of the 

Who travels 8,000 miles a year to visit 
her 100,000 boys 

Bv Mabel Hil'lier 



O be unscarablc, unfreezable, 
untirable; to be canny and 
sonsy; to have a good memon,- 
and a better forgetter>' — when 
needed; to possess a heart that doesn't 
know its own goldenness and a head 
that denies its personal halo — \hv>: 
things and a few more along the sanu- 
line constitute the preliminary re- 
ciuirements for the man or woman 
who would step into Agnes SprouU - 
shoes, what time she lea\cs them 
vacant, which, says North Ontari . 
may the Good Lord long forbid. 

Miss Sproule has a parish of soim- 
100,000 souls. That she isn't the only 
incumbent goes without saying; that 
for eighteen years she has been one 
of the best-loved, most-respected, 
hardest-worked missionaries to the 
lumbermen, is a fact that no man in 
the North land will dispute. 

Men have come and gone — lumlxr- 
iacks, cooks, foremen, Y. M. C. A. 
secretaries, student preachers. The 
one permanent figure in all the chang- 
ing battle-line where civilization fights 

the forest and religion fights rum, is 
the dauntless, tireless W. C. T. U. 
Scotchwoman who tells you quite 
casually that last year she travelled 
8,000 miles, 400 of them by sleigh, one 
hundred and fifteen on foot. 

Twenty-one years agci Miss Sproule 
lived in Fort William and church- 
worked in every spare minute. To 
her practical mind, the scribe and the 
pharisee might well be left alone to 
attend Saint Doasyoulike's or not, 
just as they chose. She wanted to 
hunt up the publican and the sinner 
who didn't belong anywhere for the 
good and sufficient reason — ten chances 
to one — that nobody'd asked them. 

The foreigner, in particular, inter- 
ested her. He had no church. He 
had no Bible. And, scattered along 
the main line of the C. P. R., he had 
no chance of acquiring either. Miss 
Sproule saved, sent to the Bible Society 
and bought him a Scripture portion 
in his own tongue. 

Gradually the mission- 
ary-to-be began to visit 
the timid little mothers. 
Smiling and crying are the 
same in all languages, and 
a handgrip will translate 
itself as meaning sympathy 
wherever you go. 

The men worked in the 
( amps and they too need- 
id evangelization. They 
needed in addition a few 
of the little handinesses 
that only a woman could 
supply. The Comfort Bag 
was the result — a won- 
derful mine whence the 
perplexed male could dig 
scissors and needles and 
pins and buttons and tape, 
to say nothing of healing 
niiument when he was 
injured and a marked Tes- 
tament with a motherly 
letter inside to read when 
he was homesick. The 
foreigner, of course, 
couldn't take advantage of 
this last item but the 
Canadian boy could and 
did. And not only was he 
benefitted, but the women 
(Idwn in Lower Ontario 
I (it their hearts warmed 
and their patriotism stimu- 
lated as they met to sew. 
for by this time Miss 
Sproule was the official 
representative of the Pro 
\incial W. C. T. U. whose 

II thousand members still 

i|)port her. 

You can't work and 
pray very long without 
desire to go and see, St 
Agnes tells you. Hence, 
one clear zero day in 


February eighteen years ago, Miss 
Sproule left Fort William for Silver 
Mountain, thirty -seven miles to the 
southwest, to follow the trail of the 
Comfort Bags she had despatched. 

"Camp Two of the Pigeon River 
Lumber Company is off the track, oh, 
about eight miles," she was informed 
in the wide-swinging, none-too-accu- 
rate language of the North. 

Five o'clock and a setting sun found 
her at the unknown little station where 
she was met by a huge giant in furs, 
stuffed into a sleigh and jingled off. 

"How far is it ? Oh, about thirty 
miles, lady," said the giant, comfort- 

"I'll never forget that ride," said 
Miss Sproule; "when we started, there 
was a new moon between the trees. 
When we got there it was pretty late 
the next morning — I'd slept at an 
intervening camp — but at night we 
had a hundred and fourteen men out 
at the little service, and that was 


The one permanent figure in the nortliern tiattle line where civilization fights 
the forest and reUgioQ fights rum 


every single soul who could under- 
stand English." 

The favorite hymn in the woods is 
Nearer My God to Thee. When yoti 
get a hundred men singing it under 
the Christmas trees with the stars 
atop, the guardian angel of the North 
puts his harp against the pearly gate 
and leans over to listen. 

The next day drew in with a cold 
so intense that the mercury curled up 
in the bottom of the thermometer and 
the men staid in camp to prevent the 
steel of their tools from splitting. 

Saint Agnes, however, had a sister 
in Fort William who would be waiting 
for her, so, at the first sign of a rise in 
temperature, she started out, walked 
eight miles and then caught a tote 
sleigh going to Silver Mountain. It 
was just runners and a board across, 
this charity-chariot. It didn't seem 
very secure and there were pitch holes 
without number, but there was no 
choice of vehicles, so the passenger 
climbed on. Twenty- 
seven miles from the near- 
est doctor, the sleigh came 
to pieces, the missionary 
was dumped off and near- 
ly killed, but pulled her- 
self together in time to 
hold service in a hospita- 
ble Catholic home that 
night. To be sure it was 
so cold that your back 
froze when you were sit- 
ting in front of the fire, 
but a good conscience and 
a Scotch ancestry will win 
against the mercury any 

"At last they got me 
out to the train," Miss 
Sproule said, smiling at 
the recollection. "There 
were half a dozen lum- 
berjacks on board. One 
of them had a picture of 
his girl in a locket, I 
remember, and he showed 
it to me." 

It was eight ' o'clock 
when the train started to 
start. It was noon when 
it finally unfroze itself 
sufficiently to get off the 
siding. The conductor 
ordered his Special spht, 
and himself and the train 
crew ran into Stanley 
Junction for a leisurely 
dinner before getting un- 
derway about two o'clock. 
Five miles west of Fort 
William they stuck again 
and were dug out in time 
to reach town at six, 
having gone thirty-seven 
miles in ten hours, carry- 
ing a breakfastless, din- 
Continued on page 116. 

Soldiering at Salisbury 



, By Pte. H. R. Gordon 

THE Canadian Contingent is 
under canvas again. But Salis- 
bury Plains isn't Valcartier. 
In place of pine-covered hills, 
we see bare rolling downs of close- 
cropped turf. In place of sandy tracks 
we march over hard stone roads. In- 
stead of gum and pop we eke out our 
rations with 'alf and 'alf and choc'lit, 
and we buy it by the tuppennyworth. 
We are now a part of "Kitchener's 
Army," not "Sam Hughes' Militia," 
and some time before Christmas we 
hope to be part of "The Allied For- 

We haveTnot had a spectacular re- 
ception. Most of us were smuggled 
off the transports, a battalion at a 
time, at night, hurried through the 
streets to the railway station and 
taken ? straight to the one place in 
England where civilians are scarcely 
ever seen, Salisbury Plains. We are 
here for work. Pomp and parade will 
be reserved for the time when the 
War is over and those of us who are 
left are on our way home. 

At seven o'clock on tlie evening of 
Monday, October the nineteenth. 

twenty-five days after we had gone 
on shipboard, buglers invaded every 
deck and we heard the call for which 
we had been waiting anxiously for a 
fortnight: the "Fall In" for the entire 
battalion to land. 

Everybody cheered; on the way 
to the upper deck everybody was 
singing and whistling. 

Ten minutes later we were on solid 
ground again, drawn up beside the 
drydock where a Dreadnought was 
being refitted. We marched for half 
a mile through the navy dockyard, 
passed clanging workshops and bril- 
liantly light drydocks. The workmen 
were too busy even to notice us. Out- 
side the sentry-guarded gates, we had 
our first glimpse of civilian England, a 
densely-packed crowd of women and 
children with only a few men scattered 
among them. As we passed, they 
cheered and handed us packets of 
cigarettes and apples. One or two 
handsome fellows on the outside of 
the column received embarrassing at- 
tentions from the ladies. 

At the station we were packed into 
the compartments of the funny little 

Copyri^t by InttrnationalN eas Service 


trains drawn by incredibly tiny engines. 
Some one blew a whistle and the plat- 
form suddenly seemed to glide back. 

"Why, we've started !" exclaimed 
one of our chaps wh(j had never been 
in an English train before. 

We got out on the stone platform of 
a little place called Amesbury, in the 
clammy dawn of an English autumn 
morning. The ground around was 
piled high with baggage and stores of 
all sorts. Two companies of us were 
told off to lead a couple of hundred 
remount horses to our camp ground, 
somewhere off over the misty hills 
to the northwest. 

We led the beasts through the sort 
of village that most of us had read 
about but never seen. The village 
church, the winding stone-paved 
street, the cyclist's rest, the village 
inn made us realize that we were in 
an exquisitely neat, a totally different 
sort of country. Past the village, the 
road led over a stone bridge near a 
walled-in country house, to a bare, 
rolling, bleak stretch of county — • 
Salisbury Plains. 

Half a mile to the north on the left 
side we saw' a circle of rough slabs of 
stone set up on end. 

"That's Stone Henge," remarked 
the Englishman in our section. 

We halted just outside the very 
modern barb wire fence which pro- 
tects this relic of the Druids. The 
remount squad took advantage of the 
halt to get on their steeds and the 
shades of the early Britons enjo\ed 
the spectacle of Canadian infantry 
men with full kit and rifles slung across 
their backs, sitting astride bare-backed, 
rawboned farm horses, trying to guide 
them with kicks in the ribs and tugs 
at frayed hemp halters. A good many 
of the would-be riders went for short 
aeroplane flights as their mounts jibed 
and bucked. 

A mile further on a woman sUxxl 
at the gate of one of the few farms on 
Salisbury Plains with a pitcher of cold 
water and ga\e us all a drink and a 
kindly word of welcome. 

After eight miles of marching, we 

reached our brigade camp, a ver>' 

' similar camp to the one we had left at 

Valcartier. Here, however, we have 

wooden floors for our tents and ticks 



filled with straw to sleep on, instead 
of moss covered ground. Wooden 
shacks are being built for us and we 
shall probably move into them as 
soon as the cold weather sets in. 

We made the acquaintance of the 
Commander of the Canadian Contin- 
gent this afternoon, Brigadier-( General 
,'\lderson, a stocky, weatherbeaten 
looking man with a heavy moustache 
and a twinkle in the corner of his eye. 
He made a favorable impression the 
moment we saw him and a little speech 
he gave us confirmed that opinion. 

"Men," he said, "I put myself in 
\<)ur hands. I am going to treat you 
like men and I expect you to behave 
like men. I feel perfectly safe in 
doing .so." 

We cheered, and there was real 
feeling behind the cheers. We feel 
sure that with a man of that stamp in 
charge, we'll be ready to go to the 
Front as soon as is humanly possible. 

In the meantime we're making an 
unprecedended impression on Salis- 
bury Plains. When a Wiltshire 
county carrier from the Wyly valley 
tells a quarrelsome carter to cut out the 
"rough stuff" and a Shrewton civilian 
receiving much copper in exchange at 
the booking office objects to "another 
handful of chickenfeed," you may be 
reasonably sure that something is 
happening which will for all time 
change the face of England and of the 
world. Twenty years ago a philolo- 
gist stated that the vocabulary of 
Salisbury Plains consisted of about 
400 words, and some of those were 
low German. The camps of Regulars 
• have swelled the vocabulary a good 
deal, but the arrival of the Canadians 
has suddenly expanded the dialect of 
Shrewton and Amesbury and Winter- 
i bourne Stoke into the interoceanic 
I lingo which is current of the Empire 
I from Calgary to Calcutta. 

But to return for a glance at all the 
long days that bridged the time be- 
tween Valcartier and Salisbury Plains. 

(3ur arrival in England was rather a 
gradual process. We were in luig- 
land — that is, in Plymouth Harbor — 
: five days before setting foot on English 
soil. The welcome the people gave 
lis was none (he less hearty and none 
I he less appreciated, for coming in 

It began in the Channel, five miles 

tith of Plymouth Sound, while we 
were crawling into harbor through (he 
swarm of black, untidy little hornets 
of destroyers which patrol the (Chan- 
nel. A (ireat Western Railway tug 
passed us and their crew responded 
lustily to tiieir captain's request for 
. "Three cheers for the bloomin' Canai- 
dians !" 

As we drew in past the breakwater 
and its checkerboard-painted turret 
fort, at sunset, we got another cheer 

Copyright by 1 nternaiionoi News Service 


from some seamen. And our prog- 
ress up the harbor after dark to our 
anchorage far inside the searchlight- 
guarded entrance was a triumphal 
progress. Plymouth seemed to have 
turned out en ma.sse to the waterfron(, 
and it was "'Ooray for the Canai- 
dians !" all the way in. 

We woke in the morning to see the 
upper end of Plymouth Harbor. On 
one side was a Dreadnought cruiser 
taking on stores from Devonport dock- 
yard ; on the other bank a cow grazing 
in a miraculously green field with a 
church spire rising out of a clump of 
brown oaks in the background. We 
spent most of the morning watching 
that cow, the first animal we'd seen 
for a month. 

In the afternoon little excursion 
boats, packed with sightseers, came 
up the harbor, and there was much 
waving of handkerchiefs from their 
decks and much cheering from (jurs. 
On every one of (hem half a dozen 
small boys would cry shrilly; "Ah we 
daown'ahted ?" And we would thun- 
der back, "NO !" 

Newspapers came aboard that after- 
noon and we were all so glad to get 
something to read that we even de- 
voure<l a column editorial of the Times, 
which referred to the coming <jf the 
Canadians as the "arrival of dwellers 
in the wilderness, men used to the 
hard life of the settler and masters of 
all the arts with which he carries on 
his daily struggle against nature." 

Had we been the actual savages of 
the paragrapher's vision, however, we 
couldn't have been gladder than we 
were to get to England. 

The trip from Quebec to Plymouth 
was a mixture of a holiday, a conval- 

escence, and a term in prison, all in 
one. We had a three weeks' respite 
from the long hours and the hard work 
of a camp. We had good food, and 
comfortable bunks. The only trouble 
was (hat we didn't have enough to do. 

To half the contingent, probably, an 
ocean voyage was an entirely new 
experience. But in a day or two all 
the mysteries of the ship's equipment 
had been investigated. The "Scouts" 
made haste to mark down in their 
mental maps the various bases of 
supply, three kitchens, a bakery, and 
a barber's shop were chocolate was 
sold. For three days we enjoyed the 
luxury of comfortable beds, hot water 
to wash in, and meals that did not 
always consist of skilly or roast beef. 
During this time the ships of the con- 
voy were loafing down the St. Law- 
rence. We were a day at Rimouski, 
and two days at Father Point and we 
filled in the time wondering when we'd 
reach our destination. One rumor 
had us bound for South Africa, another 
for Egypt, another for India. Some 
fellows believed the Egyptian rumor 
to such an extent that they tried (o 
dispose of their heavy wool sweaters. 

At Gaspe Bay we first realized what 
a big undertaking it was to transport 
the whole contingent, 33,000 of us, 
across the water. We had come early 
on Thursday and we had watched the 
transports arriving every hour or two, 
Thursday and Friday. Saturday 
morning the fleet was complete. 

A brisk easterly l^reeze made the 
water of the bay dance and glitter in 
brilliant sunlight:. On the north side 
against a back-ground of pine-covered 
mountain, and brown stubble-field, 
Continued on page 137. 



This department is under the direction of " Kit " who under this familiar pen 
name has endeared herself to Canadian women from Belle Isle to Victoria. Every 
month she will contribute sparkling bits of gossip, news and sidelights on life as 
seen through a woman's eyes. 

KJOTHING could be easier than to 
•'• ^ croak out an article on Christmas 
like a gloomy raven, but of all the 
dear, the merry Christmases that have 
ever gladdened the old world this is 
not the time to do that. It is, above 
all other Christmases, the one in which 
to think of others, to help others, to 
sing the uplifting songs of Noel, to 
pray for peace and good will. We 
have to think of the children, especially 
the children of the men who are for 
Canada — her homes, her women and 
her little ones. A letter from a chap 
in the trenches voices poignantly a 
hope 'that the kiddies we leave behind 
won't be without a visit from Santa 
Claus. "We'll not be 'ome before 
Christmas," he says. "Perhaps we'll 
never be 'ome again, but for Gawd's 
sake don't let the, kiddies miss us at 
Christmas. I've seven of *em — " 

Among all our various funds might 
it not be a good thing to set one — a 
Santa Claus Fund— aside exclusively for 
the "Kiddies of the men at the front .■"' 


(^NE of the saddest things about the 
^^ war is that we get used to its 
horrbrs,^so that they do not affect us 
as they^did in the first dreadful days. 
The reason is, I suppose, that by a 
merciful provision of human nature 
we are unable to keep at high pressure 
all the time. It it were not so we 
should go mad. Each one of us has 
what may be called a "mean tempera- 
ture," that is, a general level of equani- 
mity. If there were an instrument 
that would measure personal tempera- 
ment and indicate it on a dial, we 
should discover that while we have 
some high times and some low ones, 
our variations above or below normal 
are not for the most part very exten- 
sive. A piece of horrifying news 
depresses us at first to a frightful 

depth, but the tendency is towards 
recovery of ourselves. In like manner 
there are things that will send us up 
into the seventh heaven. We tread 
on air; for the moment we are lifted 
above all mundane considerations. 
But the healthy tendency is, again, 
towards our permanent normal. We 
need not blame ourselves, or think 
that our sympathies are less keen, or 
that we are growing callous, if we can 
read that ten thousand men have been 
killed, and almost immediately turn to 
the qutestion as to whether we shall 
have liver and bacon, or steak and 
onions for dinner. As I said before, 
if we had not this power of recovery 
we should go mad. The agonizing 
sweat of the surgeon over his first 
critical operation is not usually re- 
peated. And they do say that when 
a woman has been a widow three times 
she buries her fourth with far fewer 
tears than accompanied her first to 
the tomb. 

T TNDER these circumstances it is 
^ interesting to enquire whether 
what I have called the normal every- 
day reading of the personal barometer 
varies with different persons. The 
answer is that it varies very much. 
Some people's normal is much higher 
than that of others, while, of course, 
the converse holds good, and with 
some it is a thing of continuous low 
averages. There are those who, partly 
from natural gift and partly from the 
discipline and nurture of their original 
personalities by various influences, 
whether of society, literature and in 
some cases religion, have developed a 
capacity for living at a high level, 
and that seem to have in then/ a 
vitality that is not of this world. It 
is the presence of such persons here 
and there — alas ! they are too few — 
that makes us reluctant to accept the 

teachings of those philosophers win 
would tell us that the thing we ha\i 
been accustomed to call the soul i~ 
merely a pnxluction of protoplasm. 
For my part I have never been able 
to believe that mind and s<jul were 
merely the result of the action of the 
digestive organs — so much beef and 
vegetables and beer going to produce- 
flesh and Ixjnes and so much to !"• 
resolved by the processes of naturi 
into intellect and spirit. 


"j^ITCHENER must provide more 
army. Kitchener must supplv 
an army that will hold England 
place in battle, and be of sufficiem 
consequence to give England her part 
of the spoils when the time comes for 
the peace settlement — that is, FIngland 
must put up her full quota — she mu>i 
have her share of chijjs in the game 
if she would partake of the pot." 

This long sentence is from the pen 
of Mr. Samuel G. Blythe who wrin- 
the "Who's Who and Why" in thai 
amazingly successful publication the 
"Saturday Evening Post," which has 
such a circulation in Canada because 
apparently we cannot turn out a 
weekly that will come up to it in general 
interest or approach it in price. In 
the issue of September 26, this rather 
brilliant writer attempted a "Who's 
Who and Why" of the great soldier 
on whom in these days all eyes are 
turned, and he would not be Mr. 
Blythe if he did not produce some- 
thing very readable and "snappy." 
His article has the merits and the 
defects of the slapdash style, but in ■ 
the sentence quoted he surely shows 
himself quite imable lo take tin- 
British point of view. 

Mr. Blythe writes for American 
business people and he naturally falls 
into the error of supposing that we 
also are thinking of the war in a 
strictly and purely l)usiness wa\ . 
Our men who are leaving their kindred 
and going to the front are going be- 
cause forsooth "England must have 
her share of chips in the game?" In 
the midst of our sacrifices and < :ii 
heartbreak we have a keen eye ! ; 
t)usiness, have we ? Now some of ;i~ 
had been thinking that one of ilie 
compensations of this war is that it 
has raised us above the petty c : - 
siderations of personal profit int' a 
nobler atmosphere, in which the chii 
things to be striven for are trai', . 
justice and liberty. As a whole, the 
American press has not failed to grasp 
this aspect of the case. It lia~ 
recognized that the wonderful and 
epochal response of the whole Empire 
at this heart-searching time has been 
because of a passionate appreciatii n 
of ideal considerations that haw- 
nothing to do with "chips in the game' 



" ''TIS a fine time the Toronto Globe- 
'^ man does be having j^raising the 
Sassenaclis and the Highlanders and 
iavin' til' Irish out of it," said the 
Man at the Crossroads as he sat with 
the Pedhir eating a modest bite by 
the side of a Httle road out of sight of 
the soldiers. "What wid thryin to 
prove the English and Scots are the 
'Best o' the Breed,' and boasting 
about what they did in all the wars 
that ever were, he lost sight of the 
fact that the biggest part of the Brit- 
ish army is made up of Irishmen. 
Shure the Scots are fine, and the High- 
landers move me to tears when I sec 
how careless they are before the wim- 
men whether they're straight or knock- 
kneed, and the pipes set all the blood 
in me galloping especially when I 
remember that the Highland pipes is 
me ould friend the war pipes of Ire- 
land that marched before Jirian Bor- 
hoimbe a hundred strong into Clon- 
tj.rf that day he licked the boots off 
tile Danes." 

"I heard they were a thousand 
trong," said the Pedlar. 

"Pedlar, me boy," said the Cross- 
reads Man, "'tis my belief you've been 
drinking something a thrifle sthronger 
tlan tay to be talking foolish talk like 
tiial. What army, what army, I ask 
yc. could spare a thousand men to be 
squcczin' a march out of the pipes ! 
^"ou're worse for boastin' than that 
Toronto Globe-man with his 'Best o' 
the Breed.' It makes me lafT," con- 
tinued the Man at the Crossroads 
(and the shells and shrapnel screech- 
ing all round us), "to see the way th' 
English and Canadian papers are 
anxious to claim Kitchener as an 
Englishman bekase his people were 
English, and in the same breath claim 
Adam Beck — the Lamplighter — as a 
Canadian bekase his people were Ger- 
man. French, too, they call an Eng- 
lishman bekase his people were all 
Irish since ever Adam founded the 
race. Little Bobs they lave us, an' 
Charley Beresford bekase they couldn't 
disroot them from Ireland if they 
tried. They can have Kitchener — 
great as he is — for I never liked the 
steel eye of him, but — " 

"Faith," said the Pedlar, rising and 
shaking the crumbs from his Pack, 
"I never heard an ould fool talking 
like ye, and I've met many an omad- 
haun in my time." 

Silently the two sour old friends 
proceeded on their way. 


IT was one of those lovely days we 
get in October and November, and 
often indeed in late December, a day 
in Canada's loveliest season when 

"Although the sun shines bright and fair, 
The autumn tang is in the air; 

**\Vliat we have we'll liold 
AVhai wehavent >\rell 

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and one that will be appreciated every day in the year. 

Or perhaps he'd prefer the Gillette "Aristocrat" in its 
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And age remembers with a sigh 

That winter's nipping cold is nigh." 

As I walked along tlie street, almost 
regretting in the bright sunshine that 
in consequence of the cold of the past 
few nights one had put on some warm 
things, the approach of winter was 
flashed upon me in a rather prosaic 
fashion. Yes, positively flashed. For 
thJi bright sunshine that had in it a 
whole battery of late summer rays, 
shone on a wagon-load of stove pipe 
elbows that was going to some hard- 
ware empxjrium. And thereafter as I 

Made in. Canada. 

walked I seemed to be constantly 
reminded of the cold that is steadily 
walking towards us from the icy north. 
The furniture brokers had trotted out 
the second-hand stoves that had lain 
in shadowy retirement all the summer. 
The hardware stores were full of new 
ones. The drygoods men were set- 
ting out their windows with warm 
clothing, and tempting overcoats were 
displayed in the men's emporiums. 
(N.B.) I dote on that good word 
emporium — I like to see it exhibited 
on the facade of a general store in the 



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NA/ althani 
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The spirit of giving is symbolized in these 
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The man who is fortunate enough to receive 
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country. Emporiums is not the true 
plural of the word ? I beg your par- 
don. When we take a word into use 
we make it fit our ways. Say "em- 
poria," if you like. 

TIJUT those stove-pipe elbows ! 
■^ What pictures they bring up. 
They are not intended for your fur- 
nace-heated houses with the latest 
improvements: hot water boilers, radi- 
ators, expansion-tanks and all the 
rest of it. They are for the houses 
where, at best, the heating is done by a 
"self-feeder," and you run the stove- 
pipes through as many rooms as you 
can before they reach the chimney. 
Those stove-pipe elbows will be used 
by the master of the house himself 
when he gets home from work and his 
"missus" reminds him that the stove 
had better be fixed up. Perhaps she 
says that the roomers will be com- 
plaining, if they keep roomers, as very 
likely they do, to eke out the slender 
income. Advertisements relating to 
"warm rooms" will soon begin to 
appear in the papers. I remember one 
in a Toronto paper. "Wanted a com- 
fortable bedroom by a young man 
with a stove-pipe opening." The 
compositors ought to have put in that 
missing comma — let alone the proof 

T F tlie householder be a pious man he 
should kneel down and say his 
prayers before he begins to put up 
stove-pipes. It does not matter how 
careful people may be, there is sure to 
be some of last year's soot in the old 
pipes. And they have been lying in 
the cellar or somewhere all through 
the summer days. Some of them have 
got bashed in at the ends, and even if 
you have new elbows you are never 
certain. There is more temptation 
to profanity and impatience in putting 
up stove-pipes than in any other part 
of the household economy. These are 
likely to develop when the operator 
asks his wife to hold one piece of pipe 
for him while he fits another on to it. 
"I wish you would hold it steady — 
can't you rest it on something ? Care- 
ful now — I've nearly got it on — oh 
my goodness me, why don't you hold 
it steady — here it's all off again, con- 
found it." Or, "why, this isn't the 
piece at all — I thought you said you'd 
got 'em all in order." "Well," says 
the wife, "you told me you'd marked 
'em all. If you did, all I can say is 
the marks must have worn off. The 
children must have been playing with 
them." "Well, why do you let the 
children play with 'em ? Oh, dash 
these pipes, I shall never get the 
blessed thing up this night," etc., etc. 

But when at last the "blessed thing" 



The Cost of 
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functions of the human body that bring 
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outdoor exercise. In this food you have 
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home where Shredded Wheat is known. 
Always the same in price and quality. 

does go up, what joy, what pleasure ! 
"I'll just see how it burns," says the 
delighted operator. Paper and chips 
are brought, a match is struck and 
they are lighted. How they flame ! 
How they roar ! "Are there some o' 
those bits of hardwood left in the 
shed ?" asks the man. There are 
just a few, it appears. They are 
brought in. The children have gone 
to bed. The first fire of the fall 
begins to diffuse its benign warmth. 

Two Shredded Wheat Biscuits with hot milk 
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y\yE will return to the trenches, the 
boys who are fighting to keep 
their women decent and the children 
fed — in a moment. But a momentary 
look at modern Christmas may not he 
irrelevant. The great Feast has of 
late years become extraordinarily com- 
mercial in spirit, and in the matter of 
present giving. Advertising has made 
of good old fairy-man Santa Glaus, a 
commercial traveller. Very grand, 




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but shallow writing has encompassed 
the darling of the children — the Giver 
of the F"cast. Staid, prosaic, and, I 
am not afraid to say, women with 
narrow views, have decried, from 
time to time, "filling the children's 
minds with nonsense." Now, unless 
imagination and the beautiful poetry 
of life is introduced early into the life 
of the child, the little human creature 
cannot help growing into a staid, self- 
centred, prosaic person. Have we 
not enough— for God's sake ! — of that 
kind of dingy bringing-up in Canada 
to authorize a protest against it. Life 
here need not all be made up of making 
one penny sit on the other. We are 
backward in most of the nice things 
that make this world a foretaste of 
Heaven. We women are keen on 
putting down (or up) fruit, or putting 
down (or up) pickles, yet when I asked 
a man of supposed intellectuality 
what he thought of this war — this 
world -war, mind you, and when one 
mentioned it as preparatory to Arma- 
geddon, he replied: "I don't know 
just what you mean by Armageddon, 
but I've no interest in European 
events. Fact, is I never read the 
war stuff !" 

Good night, dear Lady ! 


DUT it is Christmas time._ What 
will the grand old Feast bring to a 
troubled world ? Not to-day must 
we linger on the atrocities of the Bar- 
barians, but rather on the misery and 
necessity of the survivors. I should 
not call this Christmas a time for the 
rich to give presents to the rich. I do 
not believe there is a woman in Can- 
ada who would not forego her annual 
gift in order to give its value where 
it will be most wanted. We would 
not care to clothe ourselves in beauti- 
ful furs, or wear glittering jewels, 
while the families of our soldiers needed 
for Christmas comforts. This should 
be a great year of giving. Perhaps 
our Lord sent our tribulation in order 
to show us how selfish of late years 
we have grown. 

To be sure, every year there have 
been large Christmas funds and 
charities, but may I tell you what one 
"charitable" lady asked a soldier's 
wife whose name she had put on her 
'Christmas list: "Are all your chil- 
dren legitimate ? Have you been a 
prudent person before as well as after 
marriage ?" And the ; wonder to a 
Pedlar who has tramped the high- 
roads and byways of the world is — 
that the soldier's wife did not knock 
the lady down. 

There is a "charity" that is degrad- 
ing. It is the Devil's "charity" — not 
the dear, hidden, shy charity of the 
gentle Christ. Dear God ! When you 
think of it, of the cruelty of these 

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sanctimonious women to the little 
children — the small wayside, sweet 
flowers along life's roadway, you want 
to be in yourself one gigantic Santa 
Claus who has not reindeer enough to 
pull his wagons and wagons of gifts, 
or love-words enough to comfort the 
little hearts whose grown up heritage 
is grief and sorrow. 

A Merry Christmas, lovers all — 
from a Pedlar who waxeth hot — and a 
kind Christmas — and a prayer for 
God's peace to descend on us all — on 
all the poor troubled world. 



Colonel Steele 

Continued from page 103. 
journey two hundred miles into the 
mountains in the early eighties, restor- 
ing order among the Indians, on which 
occasion he was thanked by the 
Premier in General Orders. The pre- 
sent Fort Steele is reminiscent of the 
days at the mouth of White Horse 

He was in the Rebellion of eighty- 
five, at Frenchman's Butte and Loon 
Lake, where he and his Scouts broke 
up Big Bear's band, he and sixty of 
his men pursuing five hundred Indians 
into the great northern forest. He 
has known every phase of prairie work 
and every vicissitude of prairie life. 
He has been everything in the Force 
from Troop Sergeant Major and rid- 
ing instructor at Lower Fort Garry 
to Adjutant, District Officer, Inspector 
and Superintendent. At the Military 
Institute one evening, some question 
of privilege came up. "I'll go ask 
'The Great North West'," said one of 
his officers affectionately. No other 
one man has so touched and moulded 
every aspect of the history and life of 
the Canadian West — swarthy, hard 
as nails, quiet, strong, the straight 
outlines of the simple, vital things of 
a new country grown his own — ^Samuel 
Benfield Steele is the West incarnate 
"The Great North West," of a truth I 

In South Africa he commanded the 
Strathconas, whom he had raised in 
Canada at the wish of the late High 
Commissioner, commanded them in 
every portion of the theatre of war, 
Natal, Transvaal, Zululand, Orange 
River Colony, Cape Colony, with what 
conspicuous brilliancy has already 
been noted. He was then loaned by 
the Canadian Premier to South Africa 
for five years, during which time he 
commanded "B" Division of the S. 
A. C. (after having raised it) directly 
under Lord Kitchener for six months 
during the latter part of the Boer War. 
Then he organized the S. A. C. further 
for times of peace, being associated 
in this with Kaden-Powell, and he 
settled up Uganda, and made the 
African veldt generally as safe as the 
prairie at home. Followed nine 
months in England with the Inspector 
General of Cavalry and back to Can- 
ada in 1907. 

Colonel Steele was happiest in South 
Africa. He was most miserable when 
writing his book. "Forty Years in 
Canada," his publishers are calling it, 
but it will cover all his other experi- 
ences as well. The publication is now 
regrettably postponed until after the 
war. "It was desperate work," the 
Colonel confided to a friend, mopping 
his brow at the memory. The pen 
was evidently heavier than the sword. 
His greatest object of distaste is "the 

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N h 



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advertising soldier," of whom he has a 
holy horror. 

When he is grim, the Colonel is 
very grim indeed. But when he isn't 
grim, he is exceedingly pleasant, as 
when his sense of humor stirs and a 
very black, very military moustache 
curls up from white teeth and his stiff, 
stern, bronze, impassive face breaks 
up into slow crinkles of amusement 
until his eyes are nearly closed. When 
he is gruff, he is very gruff indeed, but 
when his intimates gather at his 

hearth-fire for a pipe and a yam, they 
often find themselves at some early 
morning hour deep in reminiscence 
and comment, as a Scotch officer tells 
it, "speakin' away." 

He has walked with crowds— Pente- 
costal crowds, too — ^and not lost his 
virtues of dignity and command. He 
has talked with kings and generals, 
been feted in a kingdom's banqueting- 
halls and high homes and prominent 
on three continents, and he has kept 
the common touch of all humanity. 



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He is a big, simple-hearted man, 
accessible, kind. "He talked to Jack 
and me for two hours," a breathless 
boy said, flushed with pride, "just as 
if we were Somebody instead of two 
boys." That boy is now a Captain 
in one of his regiments. Another 
night at a social function he told a 
young girl proud tales of her uncle he 
had known long ago in the West. 
"I'm mighty glad to have met you," 
he said to her as he went away. That 
slip of a girl was very humble and very 
shining at that "mighty glad." 

Colonel Steele is quite keen on the 
universal military training of boys at 
school. He is at the bottom of the 
School Cadet movement. His ideal 
is a combination of the military train- 
ing of the School Cadets and the moral 
training of the Boy Scouts. He is an 
enthusiastic advocate of sports, not 
professional sport with rooters on the 
benches, but every man his own 
cricketer and foot-baller. 

In the last six years Colonel Steele 
has grown to be a familiar figure in 
Winnipeg. We have seen him at 
parades in the blazing ceremonial of 
full dress, at quiet" lectures introducing 
ing a war-correspondent, presenting a 
regimental cup, speaking good words 
of his men at a Paardeburg anniver- 
sary, reminiscent at the Canadian 
Club over the expedition under 
Wolseley. And just lately we have 
seen him at the hosting of his forty 
units for war, speaking simple, sol- 
dierly words to the regiments as they 
trooped away to Valcartier, expect- 
ing them to be orderly, sober, well- 
behaved, obedient to orders, whether 
in action or defeat always bearing 
themselves as true British soldiers. 
And the soldiers, the accent of their 
Head upon them, cheered and cheered 
as they marched out — the big D. O. C. 
is greatly beloved by his men. And 
the citizens, stirred and proud, cheered 
and cheered to the echo, for Colonel 
Steele is equally beloved by the rest 
of us who walk in mufti. And the 
big man, for whom flags have been 
flung and bells pealed, stood in the 
swaying mass and looked upon the 
eager faces, the plain, simple, up- 
standing epitome of his words to his 
men, bearing himself as a true British 
soldier. And it somehow seemed then 
as though life must be simpler for the 
soldier than for other men. Perhaps 
it is that the soldier-life claims the 
straight, simple, soldier-type. 

St. Agnes 

Continued from page 107. 
nerless, supperless but still enthusi- 
astic, missionary. 

Since then the legend of St. Agnes 
has grown in the Northland. 

"I never go into a camp now but 





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beoU U. 356 Toronto, C a a a it, . 

there's someone who comes up and 
asks me if I remember the winter ofi 
such-and-such a year, and sometimes] 
I know scores of the fellows by sight,"; 
she said. "The boys are kinder to m( 
than you can imagine and often tak( 
up collections to be forwarded to thel 
W. C. T. U. societies that send me.' 
I never ask for such a thing — it'sj 
purely a thank-offering to the other- 
boys' mothers. 

"Sometimes the camps are big am 
clean and sometimes they're littl 
and — well, not so — but the men ai 
always kindhearted and even when_ 
don't see a woman from Monday til! 
Saturday I never lack anything." 

To be sure the accommodation isn' 
always up to metropolitan standard* 
The missionary has often slept on tb 
office-floor — or on one-third of thi 
floor with a curtain round it. Sh 
has had her nose frozen during th 
night. She has felt an enquiring rat 
walk over her face. But never, never 
has she had any inconvenience that 
the camp could prevent. 

Sometimes indeed the kindnesses 
are almost overwhelming. 

Once there was a Scotch foreman 
who marshalled seventy men in t€ 
listen to the missionary, willy nilly. 
Calvinistically considered, some 
them might be foreordained to 
damned and were therefore useless 
billets for a text. But the forem; 
couldn't sort the sheep from the goat 
hence the whole flock was sent t 
church. The preacher was far t 
much of a good fellow to believe 
religion by conscription,, but 



couldn't un-Scotch a Scotchman. 

"I didn't just feel in trim to be 
inspiring," she said afterward, "but 
you can imagine my dismay when I 
found that the place was infested with 
rats who also seemed sent to church ! 
It would never have done to let the 
boys see I was afraid so I just stood 
there and talked. Later on, a little 
cat came in and caught three rats one 
after the other, driving them to cover 
around my feet. She presented each 
of them to me for inspection and then 
ate them up. But the foreman never 
smiled !" 

It was last winter that Miss Sproule 
and a Comfort Bag played Cupid in 
the Northland. This particular sly 
Bag hadn't a motherly letter in it, but 
a big-sisterly one. 

It was the camp clerk who read it, 
one cold and lonesome day. He also 

"And now — but maybe I shouldn't 
tell you," said St. Agnes laughing, 
"they're to be married this fall! 

"There was a little wife I met last 
winter. She lived in the sweetest, 
cleanest, most comfortable home, that 
she's made herself — just like a little 
nest. She and her husband had 
watched the camp all alone for the 
whole summer. In the fall she was to 
go into Blind River and you can 
imagine how she looked forward to the 
streets and the shops. 

"They were just four days out. 
Then they crawled back again with 
their money all gone. Yes, whiskey. 
Do you wonder we fight it ? Do you 
■wonder, too, that the poor little lone- 
some woman who fears the woods, 
hates the town even more ?" 

I'"or it's whiskey that is the curse 
of the Northland, just as it is a curse 
to the elemental non-reasoning man 
everywhere. Months of hard work, 
simple fare and no excitement lay the 
requisite foundation for a letting go 
in town that empties the flask and 
the pocket book at the same time and 
sends the lumberjack back to camp 
with ncjthing but a bad taste in his 
conscience. It was a British Columbia 
construction man who this summer 
told a friend that three times he had 
saved enough to take him home to 
visit his little sister in England, and 
three times his trip had ended west 
of Winnipeg, and three times he could 
write the cause as whiskey. 

The only way to drive out a big 
army is to let loose a bigger one, or in 
any case a closer-shooting, harder- 
marching, longer-enduring force. So 
far, Ontario White Ribboners haven't 
succeeded in lining up in this way 
against Ontario whiskey dealers. But 
in the individual case, as Miss Sproule 
will tell you, the almost-gone will of 
the poor, lovable lumberjack has been 
reinforced by Something — Someone, 



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Number of keys on piano or organ? Do you play old-style note music? 

Name Addrecs 

she would say — that has enabled him 
to take his paycheck to the money 
order stand at the Post Office instead 
of cashing it at the bar. And to save 
one man — and that nearly always 
means one woman too — is worth more 
than millions of feet of timber floated 
to the Lake. It's worth standing long 
cold days and bitter twinkling nights 
to achieve, it's worth putting up with 
hunger and thirst and deadtiredness, 
and hair white like St. Agnes' before 
its time. 

And now, last of all, when the camp 

work is slack and the big kind-hearted 
boys have poured from the woxls 
through Valcartier and away into 
Europe, the mothers of men who sent 
St. Agnes northward are despatching 
another helper to the east. He is a 
Y. M. C. A. secretary who served in 
the big Quebec camp, now deserted, 
and the women are pledged to support 
him as long as the War lasts, so that, 
becoming the fourth missionary of 
the society, he can carry the memory 
of St. Agnes and the Testament clear 
up to the German guns. 



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People never realize how many uses 
there are for a Peerless Folding Table 
until some friend produces one from 
who-knows-where and sets it up, al- 
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Peerless Folding Table 

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Sole Licensees and Manufacturers 








on the 




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CANADA MONTHLY. Toronto, Ont. 


VX/'HEN Mrs. Housekeeper, who 
doesn't even hire a maid, gets 
her much-crinkled five dollar bill out 
of the left hand comer of the top 
bureau drawer and goes down town 
to the notion counter, it never occurs 
to her that she's an employer of labor. 
Consequently when a misguided but 
perfectly sincere patriot assures her 
that it's Wartime, and that she ought 
not to buy even a new backcomb if 
she doesn't honest-to-Eatons need it, 
she hasn't the faintest notion that her 
rebanking of the bill in the bureau is 
crippling trade. 

There is no use in denying that 
Canada has suffered great loss in her 
biggest import — foreign capital. Leav- 
ing to the financial experts the ques- 
tion of whether the Dominion ever 
should have depended to the extent 
she did on the English sovereigns that 
were so willing to harness themselves 
for earning Canadian dimes, we can 
state without fear of contradiction 
that none of this ought to affect the 
backcomb industry, nor the cheese 
trade nor the boot and shoe business — 
that is, not so far as inter-Canada buy- 
ing is concerned. There are still in 
the neighborhood of eighteen million 
feet walking around between Halifa.x 
and Vancouver, and they all need 

What can and will cripple trade, is 
to have Mrs. Housekeeper turn back 
from the street car and wad her little 
five back home where it came from. If 
she won't buy the backcomb or the 
new pumps, the store will decrease its 
selling force, the wholesale house will 
call in its travellers, the factory will 
throw off its hands. And Mrs. House- 
keeper will find a tramp at the back 
door who is wearing out the soles on 
his own old shoes just precisely be- 
cause he isn't allowed to put the soles 
on Mrs. Housekeeper's ought-to-be new 
ones. And she'll also have the Y. W. 
C. A. Secretary or the head of the 
Patriotic Relief Bureau ringing her 
up in an attempt to place as maid. 

Miss Saizie Stenographer, late of the 
office at the same shoe factory. 

"But I'm not hanging on to my fi\c 
dollars — at least not all of it," says 
Mrs. Housekeeper; "I mean to give- 
some of it away in charity. This will 
be a hand winter." 

Charity ? And who wants charity ? 
Not John at the back door nor Saizie 
on the wire, even though both of them 
may be forced to ask for it. WTiat 
they really want is their everlasting 
same-old jobs back. That's all. 

And Mrs. Housekeeper — who 
doesn't know it, wouldn't dream of it, 
couldn't believe it for worlds — -Mrs. 
Housekeeper who is so sorry for John 
and Saizie and so ready to give them 
handouts — Mrs. Housekeeper has 
hooked their jobs ! 

Conversely stated and in shorter 
words, what we want is what Great 
Britain wants, what she has preached 
and pulpiteered and pamphleted to 
and this means that, unless your 
receipts have diminished, your ex- 
penditure must be kept at par, if the 
vast fabric of producing and handling 
trade that Canada has built to satisfy 
normal Canadian need, is not to be 
scrapped in favor of financial chaos 
or Utopian and in any case undesirable, 


"T^AYS in the Open," by Lathan A. 
■^ Crandall (Fleming H. Revell 
Co., Toronto), is a book of fish stories 
by a minister, who therefore must be 
believed when he tells you that he 
caught a seventeen-pound muskie and 
is the proprietor of an unselfishly- 
piscatorial Judge who totes him every- 
where he wants to fish and, though a 
perfect Izaak W^alton himself, always 
insists that the Preacher take the first 
chance. From the opening chapter 
of the book where the boy says, "Ma, 
may I go fishing ?" clear through to 
the last of the 270 pages, you hear the 
whirr of the cast and the bicker of the 
stream and you feel the sunshine on 


the back of your neck. Dr. Crandall 
knows fish and poles and scales (both 
Government-inspected and privately- 
adjusted) as some men know the ups 
and downs of C. P. R. and the echoes 
of Hansard. He knows the fish-spots 
too — from Prince Edward Island to 
Kootenay and from Nipigon to Florida. 
He has tales to tell of catch and catcher 
in each section touched upon. 

"The best trout stream in North 
America," the doctor says, "lies be- 
tween Chicago and Hudson's Bay. . . . 
Behold us on a sunny morning fairly 
embarked and headed up the noble 
Nipigon. A little geography and 
guide-book eloquence might be ap- 
propriate just here. The Nipigon 
River is the largest tributary to Lake 
Superior. It is about forty miles in 
length, and the outlet of Lake Nipigon, 
a body of water seventy miles long by 
fifty miles wide, with a shore line of 
five hundred and eighty miles. There 
is a fall of one hundred and thirty feet 
in its course of forty miles, and that 
means numerous cascades and rapids. 
But the fact of prime importance is 
that this river is the home of big trout; 
not only large, but pugnacious. They 
are the Sullivans — beg pardon, I mean 
the Johnsons — of the Salmo Fontl- 
nalis family." 

And so on through one lively 
leisurely out-o'-doors page after 
another, the doctor takes you, making 
you recall all your own days in the 
open and, if I'm not mistaken, causing 
you to start planning your days to 
come a whole year ahead. 


•'-THE Bail Jumper," by Robert 
*■ J. C. Stead (William Briggs, 
Toronto), is a virile, gripping story of 
life in Western Canada. A young 
Easterner stops off in a small prairie 
town to work in a general store; be- 
comes involved in a charge of theft; 
supposedly "jumps" his bail, but the 
trial shows that his case has been one 
of persecution instigated by a rival in 
love who sought his disgrace. The 
author knows his characters and the 
West. The plot is well-knit and 
plausible, and the interest is well 
sustained. In fact, if you start this 
story at night your eyes will likely 
be red the next morning — but not 
from weeping. 

Speaking of dry weather the other 
day, some one asked an old farmer out 
in an arid western state: 

"How would you like to see it rain, 
Hiram ?" 

"Don't care anything about it my- 
self," he answered, "but I've got a 
boy six years old that would like to see 
it rain." 

Dreiting Gowns from $ 1 1 .00 
Lounge Jackets. " $8.25 

For Sale at Jaeger Stores and Agencies 
throughout the Dominion 


Cardigans, from $3.75 
Golfers. " $6.00 


Incorporated in England in 1883 with British Capital for the British Empire. 

The Chief Knitter 

Continued from page 104. 

Victoria and east to Halifax. In con- 
nection with this, Mrs. Gooderham 
was commanded to go to Government 
House where she was asked to give an 
account of the movement. It was a 
largely attended meeting. Her Royal 
Highness the Duchess of Connaught 
presiding, while Princess Patricia and 
Lady Borden were also present. Some 
time after this meeting was held, the 
following telegram, which will show to 
what use the money was apportioned, 
was sent from London to the Duchess 
who forwarded it to Mrs. Gooderham: 
"London, Oct. 7th, 1914, 

With reference to your despatch 
No. 561 of 24th of September, please 
inform Duchess of Connaught that 
Army Council most gratefully accept 
generous gift of $20,000 from women of 
Canada and ask that warm thanks 
may be conveyed to donors. Army 
Council propose to spend whole sum 
in purchase of motor ambulance cars, 
half to be used in France and half in 
this country, and they would arrange 
that each car should be inscribed 
"Canadian Women's Motor Ambu- 
lance." It is estimated that forty cars 
could be purchased out of gift. 
(Signed) Harcourt." 
Perhaps Mrs. Gooderham is best 
known in connection with her untiring 
work in the Preventorium, where, 
through the nursing and attention pro- 
vided for them, many of God's little 
ones who are the unfortunate offspring 
of tubercular parents are given a new 
lease of life. Much has been written 
on this work before, suffice it to say, 
that her efforts have been so appreci- 
ated that King George in recognition 
has conferred the title of "Lady of 

Grace" upon her. She was also com- 
manded to attend at the Coronation. 
In addition to her labors with the 
Daughters of the Empire, Mrs. Good- 
erham is interested in a number of 
Women's Clubs including the Women's 
Art Association, the Women's Musical 
Club, the Rosedale Golf Club and 
the National Council of Women of 

But it is perhaps as the perfect, 
because the simple and unassuming 
hostess, that the mistress of "Dean- 
croft" is most of all her real self, look- 
ing for the best in everyone, giving to 
everyone of her own best, and there- 
fore receiving from others that mead 
of admiration and true love which is 
her due. 

The Jade Earring 

Continued from page 101. 

relation, if extended beyond that, is 
liable to abuse. But Miss Meredith's 
case is peculiar. She is an old lady — 
frail, nervous — quite alone in the world, 
for all her relatives have been nurrier- 
ous. She's entirely unable to meet 
the various business and social de- 
mands that are made on a person of her 
wealth and position. I am able to get 
on with her better than most people, 
and so it has happened that I have 
given up my practice and devoted my- 
self exclusively to her affairs." 

He said it all in a very straightfor- 
ward fashion. His frankness seemed 
almost to admit the existence of a mer- 
cenary motive in what he had done, for 
certainly he was speaking of her with 
no pretense of affection. 

But after all one was inclined to say ■ 
"Why not ?" The only thing that I 
didn't like was his telling itjto me. He 



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find a Victola in the home. 

The Victrola is a worthy addition to any home. Its music 
and entertainment are always welcome, and there's surely no 
better time to get a Victrola than right now. 

Go to-day to any "His Master's Voice" dealer in any city or 
town in Canada and see about your Victrola and he will arrange 
to deliver it any time before Christmas. 

There are victrolas in all Styles and Sizes from $20 to $300. Sold on easy 
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made such a parade of candor that I 
distrusted a little. 

He laughed. If I could have spoken 
my thoughts aloud he couldn't ha\c- 
read them more accurately. 

"You're wondering why I should 
tell you all this," he said. "Well, it's 
a neces.sary preliminary to some ques- 
tions I'm going to ask. You know who 
it was that Mr. Jeffrey painted the por- 
trait of ?" 

"Miss Meredith's niece, I think he 

He ncxJded. "And did Mr. Jeffrey 
inform you also that he accepted Miss 
Meredith's commission without seeing 
her — that he has never seen her ?" 

"Yes," said I. "He told me that, 

"It must have struck him as a very 
curious arrangement," the doctor went 
on. "Really, it was by my advice that 
the thing was done that way. As I 
said, Miss Meredith is a very nerxous 
woman, and the death of her niece 
seems to have caused her a serious 
shock. They were in Paris together 
three years ago when the girl died." 

"That would accentuate the shock, 
of course," said I, "being alone with 
her in a foreign country. They were 
traveling about together, I suppose ?" 
"No, as a matter of fact," said the 
doctor, "they were living in Paris. 
Miss Meredith prefers the Continent to 
this country, and Claire was, I believe, 
studying art." 

I couldn't help the catch in my 
breath that came just then. I was 
quick enough to choke the exclama- 
tion of astonishment that was on my 
lips. I experienced for a moment the 
same sensation that must have been 
Jeffrey's constant companion during 
the past two months, and I didn't 
wonder at the look of panic that some- 
times came into his eyes. The doctor 
wasn't looking at me, and I was glad 
of it. 

"That was three years ago, you 
say ?" I tried to make the question 
sound casual enough, but I don't know 
how well I succeeded. 

He nodded. "She died of smallpox 
during the epidemic of that year," he 
said. "Miss Meredith never got over 
the shock of it. The girl is very con- 
stantly in her thoughts, and she wanted 
a portrait that should be a more living 
memorial than the one photograph 
which she possessed. But you will 
understand, I think, that it was impos- 
sible, in her condition, to talk calmly 
about the girl to a stranger — to tell him 
in detail, facts about her appearance 
such as Mr. Jeffrey wanted. So I had 
to undertake to convey them to him at 
second-hand. It is really marvelous 
that, under such a handicap, he succeed- 
ed so well." 

'He told me that Miss Meredith had 
Continued on page 143. 



Pattioi; up meadow hay in the Necbako Valley. 

Stock thrives on the rich grasses in the Nechako Valley. 

Farming Opportunities in British Columbia 

Come to the Rich, Sunny, Mild 


on the Main Line of the Grand Trunk Pacific 

Let this Board of Trade, which has nothing to sell, 
give you reliable, disinterested, free information. 

T EARN about the wonderful opportunities for farming and 
stock raising in the fertile Nechako Valley, the largest 
and richest connected 'area of agricultural land in British 
Columbia. Fertile soil. Mild, bracing climate. The best mixed 
farming country in Western Canada. On the main line of a 
transcontinental railroad. Near good, growing towns. Near 
schools and churches. 

Government Department of Lands says: " The Valley of the 
Nechako comprises one of the finest areas of land in British 
Columbia." Dr. Dawson, the well-known Government expert 
and investigator, says: " The Nechako Valley is the largest 
connected area of lands susceptible to cultivation in the whole 
Province of British Columbia." 

Here is independence and health calling to you! The 
Nechako Valley needs settlers. In our own immediate neighbor- 
hood are many thousands of acres of good, fertile, well located 
land which you can buy at a very low price. 

This Board of Trade does not deal in land nor anything 
else. It only wants to bring you and the land together. The 

land is here, waiting for you. It will bring you big harvests 
every year and keep qn swelling your bank balance. 

Let this disinterested Board of Trade advise you about the 
farming and stock raising opportunities in this rich Valley. Tell 
us how much land you want, what experience you have had in 
farming, appro.ximately what you are prepared to pay for the 
land and what resources you have to put it under crop. YOU 
We will advise you honestly, frankly, whether there is an oppor- 
tunity for you here and if so, where and why. We will bring 
you and the land together. 

If you have slaved in a more rigorous winter climate, away 
from neighbors, away from green trees and clear, running water, 
come to the Nechako Valley and enjoy life and prosperity. 

Write to-day. Investigate AT ANY RATE. You owe 
that to yourself and your family. There is no obligation on 
your part and OUR SERVICE IS FREE. 

There are several good business openings for jrc- 
gressive men and women in this fast growing town. 
If you are interested write to-day. Remember this 
Board of Trade has nothing to sell you. 

Board of Trade 
Vanderhoof, B.C. 

" The Dominating Center of Nechako Valley." 

We have nothing to sell. 

Fill out, clip and mail this coupon. 

C. M. Dec. 
Board of Trade, 

Vanderhoof, British Columbia. 

I wish to get a farm of acres for 

at about $ per acre. My resources 

are about $ This coupon 

does not obligate me in any way. 





Your Christmas 

Problem Faces 


Here's an Easy 


THEY are not only reasonable 
in price — a mighty big factor 
this year — but. if you choose the 
right ones, are certain to be thor- 
oughly acceptable. You cannot 
make a mistake in buying any of 
the following at your bookseller's. 



A refreshing, clean novel of love, war and 
heroism, with a touch of the devotional by 
an athletic Canadian parson. 



What's going to happen to your daughter 
when she leaves High school ? Read about 
it in this charming novel. 



Patent medicine and newspapers, with a 
sprinkling of good romance. May be taken 
in large or small doses. A sure cure for 


By H. A. VACHELL. $1.26 

An out-of-the-ordinary novel which is going 
like pancakes with maple syrup. Yourfriend 
will miss something good if he doesn't read it. 



A strong story of unearned millions and what 
they didn't Ijring. 


By SYDNEY McCALL. $1.25 

One of the really sweet stories that maidens 
of to-day like so well. 

Let your bookseller solve 
your Christmas problem 

William Briggs 


29-37 Richmond Street West 


The Dream of 

Continued from page 92. 

in cold blood. I well remember the 
horror felt in the pension where I was 
staying when the news arrived that 
at Carlsruhe a German officer had 
stabbed a civilian to death for some 
alleged insult in a restaurant. The 
officer, whose name if I remember 
rightly was von Briisewitz, was after- 
wards killed fighting for the Boers in 
the South African War. 

In Heidelberg I once accompanied 
an American student to the custom 
house to fetch a parcel. The building, 
an unpretentious one on the river 
bank, had its bare floor littered with 
packages and parcels. We entered, 
as we thought unobserved, but im- 
mediately a sharp voice ordered us 
to remove our hats. My American 
friend, whose father by the way was 
born in Germany, was foolish enough 
to protest and argue. 

At the German post-offices, where 
the officials at the wickets are almost 
invariably middle-aged, ambitionless 
Germans, one has to obey the regula- 
tions to the very last letter or suffer 
unpleasant consequences. It is the 
same on the railways. Everything is 
done with precision. Everything is 
rigid. , . 

With regard to the newspapers it is 
certainly true that, outside of the 
Socialist organs, the mihtary auto- 
cracy has never received any effective 
challenge. And while the Socialists 
elect nearly one-third of the members 
of the Reichstag and poll over one- 
third of the votes cast, it is very easy 
to exaggerate the importance of their 
movement. In essence it is not a 
national democratic movement, but 
an international and academic one. 
It has failed to attract to itself the 
nation's influential men of affairs, 
although it receives a large silent vote 
from people who by no means share 
Socialist doctrine. Such people vote 
for the Socialist candidates in order 
to record a general protest against 
existing conditions. What has _ been 
lacking in Germany and what is to- 
day lacking is a strong and virile 
political party imbued with practical 
democratic ideals and commanding 
the support of a wide circle of in- 
fluential business and professional 

During a considerable part of my 
stay in Germany I subscribed to and 
read closely the "Berliner Tageblatt," 
one of the chief dailies of the country 
and one which may be described as 
liberal in its views. Yet I can recall 
in the columns of the "Berliner Tage- 
blatt" no criticism whatever of Ger- 
many's constitutional limitations, that 

There i« no form of equipment, for ofBce or shop, 
which will return a larger profit through incrcaspd 
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provide comfort and protection Worth your while 
to know about. 

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The Painless Dru^less 


Are you run down ? Ha« di«eaae sapped your 
vitality ? Throw off thii worn-out feeling and 
regain robuat hcaltli by uae of Oxydonor. 


*Oxydonor has niver failed me, Havehada doubU 
and a single Oxydonor for aboul seven years." 


177 Caroline St., North. 
Jan 16/A, 1912. Hamilton, Onl. 

After having an Oxydonor in my house for over 
six years, 1 vtonld not part with it for any money if 
1 could not get another." MRS. E. S. GIBSON, 
Jan 26th. 1913. Toronto. Ont. 

Thousands of such letters have been received by 
Dr. Sanche. 

Beaare of fraudulent imilalions. The gemiint 
is plainly stamped with the name of the originator 
and inventor. Dr. H. Sanche. 
Dr. H. Sanche & Co. Dept. 83, 
384 St Catherine St. W.. Montreal. Canada. 


is to say of the structure upon which 
the whole nationalist, militarist pro- 
paganda rested. At least ninety per 
cent, of the political articles in what 
might be called the liberal press of 
Germany dealt with some phase of 
the struggle between the industrial 
population and the landed aristocracy 
in regard to the duties on foodstuffs. 
Of any direct attempt to force repre- 
sentative and responsible government 
upon an unwilling military autocracy, 
I remember nothing. 


I might proceed to illustrate my 
contention by the position of women 
in Germany. Outside of a relatively 
small class, composed chiefly of univer- 
sity women, I think I am safe in saying 
that German women have been less 
touched by the feminist movement 
than the women of any other of the 
larger countries of the world. 

One could very easily trace the 
militarist ideal in the student life of 
Germany. The German " Kommers" 
is a famous institution. It is the 
name given to gatherings in which 
students and professors foregather to 
sing patriotic songs, make patriotic 
speeches and drink the national beer. 
In the alcoholic atmosphere of the 
"Kommers," hundreds of thousands 
of German students during the past 
quarter of a century have sung, "Ger- 
many, Germany Above Everything, 
Above Everything in the World" and 
this, it seems to me, does not tend to 
lay the foundations of a peaceful, 
sober democracy. 

Whilst it is now some years since I 
was in Germany I find on every hand 
evidence that there has been no weak- 
ening of the militarist spirit there. 
Indeed it would seem as if the war 
lords had gained steadily in popularity. 
I note that a writer in The London 
Times, relating his experiences in Ger- 
many during the few days immediately 
preceding the outbreak of hostilities, 
writes of the prevailing atmosphere 
very much as I have written of it in 
the foregoing. I offer the following 
extract from his letter for what it is 
worth : 

"Thus I found commercial Frankfurt, 
scholastic Heidelberg, fashionable Wiesbaden, 
and military Coblenz all of the same mind. 
To paraphrase an old adage, 'Let me hear a 
people's songs, and I will tell you their minds.' 
It should be borne in mind that, except Austria 
(and Servia), no nation was then at war, yet 
the whole German people had the war-fever. 
It was most obvious, the Press bulletins, which 
take the place of the newspaper poster in 
Germany, being eagerly read; always there 
was a crowd round them as soon as they were 

"The hotel Portier at Coblenz congratulated 
me on being there that night, 'because of the 
excitement about this war,' and he told me 
that they were mobilizing. Asked who they 
were going to fight, he replied with vigour 
that they had stood enough from France and 
Russia; and asked what they expected to get 
out of a war, he smiled and reminded me that 
'Germany had never lost a war and always 
got something out of it.' " 

No doubt the position of Germany 
to-day is capable of explanation. No 
doubt fully to appreciate this position 
one must know something of the Holy 
Roman Empire, something of the 
Napoleonic Wars, the revolutionary 
period of 1848, the Austrian and 
Franco-Prussian Wars, and much 
more. But, after all, explanation is 
not justification. And it boots little 
to point to the oligarchic electoral 
system of Prussia, to the slumbering 


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jealousies of the individual German 
states, to the limited powers of the 
Reichstag, or to the domination of 
Prussia in the Bundesrat or federal 

The responsibility for these things 
lies in the last resort with the German 
people. Nothing, it seems to me, 
can alter that. The notion that the 
Kaiser and his immediate colleagues 
could over-ride the determined will of 
sixty-five million people has never 
seemed to me to be valid. My 

conclusion is then that the German 
people as a nation are behind the 
Kaiser and his war lords, or at least 
that they have been up to the present. 
The significance of this difference will 
doubtless be noted. It seems to me 
that the German people have de- 
liberately reared in their midst the 
monster of militarism and that this 
monster is now, in the fullness of time, 
scattering its poisonous brood abroad 
in the land. 

Before closing I wish emphatically 



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to disclaim^any animus against the 
(ierman people. The four years I 
spent in Germany were very happy 
ones and, with practically no excep- 
tions, I was treated by the German 
jieople in a kindly and friendly way. 
Even what I have written at the hv- 
ginning with regard to Herr IVofessor 
was not written in any spirit of antag- 
onism. To me the old autocrat was 
always friendly and he had generous 
impulses. When I left the pension 
for England to attend my father's 
funeral, Herr Professor insisted upon 
kissing me. Heaven grant both him 
and Frau Professor a few years of 
quiet breathing after the present night- 
mare is over. I fear they will have 
suffered greatly by the war. 

It is clear to me that the German 
people, with the spirit of militarism 
and the dream of Prussianism exorcised 
and blood-sweated out of their system, 
will again serve the world through 
fruitful and beneficent industry. The 
innate ability and the many sterling 
qualities of the German people will 
again have free play to profit and 
enrich the earth. According to one 
historian, the German people had 
opportunities to put their house in 
order in 1848, in 1859 and again in 
1862. All these chances were let ship. 
However, it is not likely that the 
military' autocracy will survive the 
present shock. 

The Lamplighter 

Continued from page 106. 

practicability of the scheme had been 
demonstrated, the future Power 
Minister moved out into the Province. 

Here he found a giant Roseberx 
who wasn't even pulling a Canadian 
cab. With the amazing thorough- 
ness that characterized his every new 
endeavor, Mr. Beck set about hame^- 
ing Niagara. 

To-day the Hydro Electric Power 
Commission controls a transmission 
line that stretches clear across the t\\'i 
hundred and fifty two miles to Wind- 
sor. One hundred and six municipali- 
ties have contracted for. power. And 
this of course is only a beginning com- 
pared to the hurdles of distance that 
Niagara's new master plans to makt 
him jump when Canada is good and 
ready to pay for it. 

Turning once more to London, M 
Beck conceived the idea that the tov i 
should buy and electrify the Pon 
Stanley railroad. Half the peopir 
didn't understand the pros and con~. 
but, "Adam says it's o. k.," so thc\- 
voted for it despite the bitter attacks 
of his political opponents. 

His latest achievement has been the 
Tuberculosis Sanitarium at Byron, for 
the success of which Lady Beck has 
done as much as her husband. Some- 



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times the Power Minister had to be 
in his car by eight o'clock in order 
to slip in a run to Byron, but he was 
never too busy to spend half an hour 
over the plan of a new pig-pen, or 
fifteen minutes to argue with the 
electrician as to the placing of a switch 
in the bam. 

Perhaps no conquest of Mr. Beck's 
has been more surprising to his fellow- 
townsmen than has his victory over 
his own disabilities as a speaker. 
Cromwell doubtless talked with his 
sword, and Moses we read was a man 
of a halting tongue. But the Power 
Minister determined to harness the 
English language as effectively as he 
had bridled Rosebery and put a bit 
into Niagara's mouth. To-day he is 
one of the finest orators we have in 
Canada — not the silver - tongued, 
wooden -headed kind, but the sort 
who build with steel-reenforced con- 
crete logic, and drive the audience in 
bodily with sheer moral earnestness. 
Finally to the King, sitting in Buck- 
ingham Palace with his advisers, came 
word of this loyal subject. 

"Rise, Sir Adam," said the King. 
It mayn't mean much to an Ameri- 
can, but we British like to honor our 
finest even when we speak to them and 
surely no knighthood was ever better 
and more lastingly earned. 

Then came the days of the Empire's 
trouble, pouring white hot from the 
converter of Time, glaring across half 
a world plunged in night. 

"Sir Adam," said the King to this 
man of German lineage who had 
offered himself to serve in any capacity, 
"you know horses. Buy for my 
Army as well as for your own Over- 
seas contingent. Add yet this one 
thmg more to the burdens you have 
taken up for the State." 

So Sir Adam bought, 1,400 of them 
so far, brave beasts for the Germans 
to shoot at. 

Last of all, so rumor says, the party 
he had served— if one may use such a 
word of such a man— came to him 
leaderless, and offered him the Pro- 
vincial Premiership. 

It would have dazzled a smaller 

"I am no politician and I never will 
be," he replied. "I will buy horses 
because I understand horses and I 
I will run the Hydro because I under- 
stand that too. But the Premiership 
IS not for me." 

! It's a hard thing to write of a living 
,man who moves so fast. Next year 
will doubtless find Sir Adam questing 
!off to tame leviathan. The 
[present writer, though not of the 
'Power Minister's political faith, ven- 
itures to assert that however big and 
:howcver rampageous the beast may 
be, SIX months at most will suffice to 
teach it to know its master's voice. ' 


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T. 113 


v^ J 




As Keissheitai 

Continued from page 83. 
ing his dismissal. But once more his 
senior seemed to have forgotten him. 
Finally: "You have added your dis- 
aster to the heaviest our arms have 
suffered. We have sent to His Majesty, 
our Emperor, the saddest news we have 
dispatched since we took to war. You 
did not see the Yashima and the 
Hatsuse with the ffeet this morning 
because you shall never again see them 
with the fleet!" 

The confirmation of his fears tore the 
cry from the sub-lieutenant. "Our 
Yashima! Our Hatsuse!" 

"At noon, yesterday, the Hatsuse 
while steaming with the Yashima, 
Shikishima and cruisers Kasagi and 
Tatsuta, before Port Arthur, ran upon 
a field of the enemy's submerged mines. 
The Hatsuse, striking one mine and 
starting to sink, struck another mine 
before aid arrived and immediately 
sank, carrying down the captain and 
more than half the crew!" 

"Our Hatsuse lost!" 

His senior continued. "In coming 
to aid the Hatsuse, the Yashima also 
struck a mine; and soon sank also!" 

Adachi's breath seemed to fail him, 
as if from pressure upon him. The 
cold, pitiless words of his Commodore 
seemed physically to crush sense of the 
double disaster upon him, and it seemed 
that the senior intended to wring from 
the boy his cry: 

"The Hatsuse and Yashima lost to 

"The Hatsuse lost to our country, 
yes. Lieutenant Yasui! It sank in 
plain sight of all the Russians on their 
hills. That cannot be concealed. So 
the admiral has telegraphed to Japan 
the loss of the Hatsuse. To-day it is 
being mourned in our country, and the 
men who died upon it, honored. 

" But the Yashima, having the aid 
of the Shikishima, and the cruisers, 
kept afloat six hours after it struck the 
mine — till it was beyond sight of the 
Russians. So the Yashima sank; yet 
— if only the foreign news-boat, Caesar, 
might also now strike a floating mine 
before it reaches Chi-Fu — our Yashima, 
though sunk, need not be lost to 

"If the foreign news-boat strike a 

"The Admiral has reported to the 
Navy Depiartment only that the Yash- 
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even to our people; for he requires that 
our enemies must still believe the 
Yashima is in our battle line! They 
must not know that to-day we have 
but three battleships where yesterday 
we had five! Their ships must not 
dare to come out ! They cannot 
defeat us; but — if they learn we have 
lost the Yashima besides the Hatsuse — 

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they will dare to attack so as to cripple 
us, perhaps too seriously. If we keep 
them from knowing, we can hold them 
as we have held them in their harbour 
and destroy them, at last, without loss 
to our fleet when our siege guns strike 
over their hills! And our fleet, intact, 
will meet whatever other fleet our 
enemies may send! 

"This the Admiral believed still 
could be, when he sailed this morning. 
We believed that we alone knew that 
our Yashima was sunk! But now has 
come word that the news-man upon the 
Caesar — at this moment but a few 
miles off," he pointed the direction, 
"has learned the news and will pass for 
Chi-Fu with it ! And so are our hands 
held from this news-boat, that, unless 
we can be sure it goes upon a mine — a 
mine. Lieutenant Yasui- — ^and so sink 
with all on board we dare not prevent 
that news from being sent and becom- 
ing soon known to the Russians!" 

"But a mine!" Adachi sucked his 
breath, as he ventured to let himself 
hope. "A mine!" he cried 

"A mine still may save us the 
Yashima, Lieutenant Yasui! But a 
mine only! If one word were whis- 
pered even in our ranks, now or later, 
that one of our ships struck that news 
boat— neutral, representing those who 
are our friends — the money we must 
have from the foreigners would be 
gone! Our victorious army on the 
Yalu must retreat on the ground they 
have drenched with their blood — 
retreat for lack of supplies! And our 
soldiers must starve and freeze this 
winter in their trenches before Port 
Arthur! So it is better — far better — 
word that the Yashima is lost be sent 
at once from Chi-Fu and reach our 
enemies and send them out to cripple 
our fleet, than that ever a rumor could 
rise that our ships have acted against 
the Caesar!" 

The joy of his incredible realization 
choked Adachi's words and the pres- 
sure, relaxed from his lungs, held him 

" But if the Caesar sink from a mine 
— a mine?" he pleaded. 

"That will be a different matter — if 
it be, without fail, a mine! So good- 
bye, Lieutenant Yasui! Take your 
ship at once, with reduced crew, for 
Sasebo, as ordered, — envying no longer 
your brother at the head of his keis- 
sheitail" The Commodore motioned 
to the box in Adachi's hand. "How 
brilliantly his death-flower blos- 

The boy, lifted in one instant from 
the lowest degradation to the highest 
opportunity to efface it, returned 
swiftly to his ship. He bore under his 
coat the little wooden box of his 
brother's ashes. His fingers again and 
again tenderly touched the cover 
inscribed with the new name by which 




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his brother's honored spirit was now 
known in the Temple of Kudan. 

Finding the hasty patching and 
calking of the Sansanami almost com- 
pleted, he directed Majuka to reduce 
the crew to the minimum for "certain- 
death" service — to explain to the men 
it was to be, not merely a "resolved- 
to-die_" detachment, but as a "keis- 
sheitail" Accordingly to take only 
the necessary ones of those that offered 

_ Hurriedly he himself saw that addi- 
tional coal had been brought, that his 
torpedo tubes and machine-guns were 
in order. 

Yet, as he stepped to his station and 
swiftly guided the Sansanami back 
through the fleet to sea, was there a 
chance for him again to fail? Were 
those upon the other ships in reality 
observing him taking his ship to 
Sapebo in disgrace, or, as keissheitai, 
going out upon certain-death service 
for his country? 

Suppose he should fail to find the 
Caesar — suppose, in fact, the news- 
boat had gone upon a floating mine! 
He could hear old Majuka crooning to 
himself as he stood by the forward 
torpedo-tube, caressing it lovingly with 
his wrinkled hand. It was a snatch of 
an old Samurai song. 

"My sword, you never tasted blood. 

Wait yet awhile, only a little 


The same confidence inspired the 

others to whom their commander had 

promised glorious death. Stepping a 

moment below, after he had brought 

the Sansanami safely to sea, how the 

sure-death devotion shone even in the 

stoke-hold ! How it glowed on the face 

of even stupid, clumsy Takesaburo as 

he opened the firedoors and he bent in 

the red light of the flaming coals. 

Adachi's fears returned, as he again 
took the bridge. No smoke yet was in 
sight where he should find the Caesar ; 
ahead he saw one, on the beam another, 
and now ahead still another floating 
mine. Was their work already done by 
one of these? It could not be so! 
No! Ahead, now smoke! 

Softly, unceasingly, he prayed to his 
brother's spirit, as the distance dimin- 
ished. He made out, through his 
glasses, that the ship might well be the 

Half an hour more and there remain- 
ed no doubt of it. Seeing the swift 
pursuit of the torpedo boat, the news- 
boat raised its identification pennant, 
dispelling all question. 

Adachi Yasui, on his bridge, swung 
his glass swiftly about the horizon. 
No other ship was anywhere in sight. 
So he and his men are keissheitail 
He bent over the bridge rail and 
shouted the order exultantly, first 
forward to Majuka, and then to the 
after torpedo tube. 



The Best 

>A/hy You 





You Will 







De Luxe 





T^HE hospitality 
^ that extends sleep- 
ing accommodations 
to guests over one night 
and possibly more, will be 
taxed to capacity in many 
homes during the Holidays 
Such circumstances 
prove how absolutely in- 
dispensable a IDndd con- 
vertible Davenport o r 
Divanette may become 
as an essential part of the 

In a moment the good- 
looking Davenport or 
Divanette that has been 
serving, except in emer- 
gencies — perhaps for a 
long time — as one of the 
most favored pieces of 
furniture in the house, is 
converted into a bed that, 
in point of comfort, could 
leavenothingtobe desired 
In the morning it will be 
as instantly returned to 
the other service as it was 
converted into a bed. All 
the bedding will be left 
upon it ready for another 
consecutive night of use 
as a bed. 

In either of these services, 
the three styles of the BtaM 
Kind find unusual favor. These 
three styles are the Somersaul- 
t ic, the De Luxe and the Divan- 
ette. All accomplish the 
same purpose equally well 
— it is simply a question of 
>our own preference. 

AskSoT a copy of theKindel 

booklet, "The House Thai 

Crew " 

The BbiM Bed Company, Limited 

New York 

14 Clifford Street 

Grand Rapids 

Readers of 
Canada Monthly!! 

If you know of any men who are 
serving our King in the present 
war who are old Students of Trinity 
College School, will you please send 
their names to 

The Headmaster 

Trinity College School 

Port Hope, Ont. 


"Tubes clear for action to port. 
Goal moving at about nine knots. We 
[lass at two hundred yards!" 

Again he touched the bell-signal to 
the engine room. 
"Full speed ahead!" 
With engines humming, the whole 
iron shell — the bridge, funnel, the 
entire super-structure — vibrating, and 
spray flying on all sides, the Sansanami 
leaped still faster forward. 

"Fire!" The order loosed both tor- 
pedoes together. Shooting into the 
water, splashing, their whirling pro- 
pellers caught and they furrowed side 
by side straight to the beam of their 
goal. Adachi called quickly a warning 
to the men at the machine guns to be 
ready. But together the torpedoes 
had gone home; and, as the waters 
subsided where the moment before had 
been the Caesar, Adachi commanded 
the machine guns unloaded. For he 
saw that instantaneously all was over. 
Mechanically he ordered the engi- 
neer, through the speaking-tube to 
slow down; and he gave his direction 
to the helmsman. 

He had not failed! He and his men, 
as keissheitai, had done their duty. 
But, instead of the greater exultation 
he had expected, sadness surprised 
him. It was not for the certainty of 
his own death, he knew. It was grief, 
honorable regret and sympathy, for 
the fate of the men whose death he had 
just ordered. 

They were very few upon the news- 
boat^ — not so many as his own men 
upon the Sansanami. Therefore more 
than full satisfaction for them would be 
rendered. Yet how sad and unjust that 
what he had done was the only thing 
that could have been done! The 
unfortunate foreign-news-man had in- 
tended no hostility to Japan. Yet 
inevitably he must have done irrepar- 
able injury. And there was no other 
way to have argued the difficulty. 
The news-man knew what must not be 
known; therefore, he was silenced, 
together with those who knew it with 
him. For that unjustifiable act, hav- 
ing no other right than their necessity, 
those that killed the foreigners wouid 
offer themselves as compensation. 

Yasui felt sympathy for his men, 
too. It was clear that they had 
expected such certain-death service .i- 
they had heard of — a wild, intoxicated, 
life-reckless dash and attack at full 
speed through a half -blocked channel, 
over mines and between obstructions, 
and under deadly fire from all sides. 
Thus torpedo-boats had attacked be- 
fore, and the former certain-death 
detachments of the Navy had taken in 
the fire-boats and the hulks to sink in 
the harbour. 

They believed that their duty still 
was to be done; for the Sansanami's 
bow had been turned to Port Arthur. 



Because of its soothing emol- I 
lient properties in all cases of 
irritation of the skin and 
scalp, especially when assist- 
ed by light touches of Cuti- 
cura Ointment, a fragrant, 
super-creamy emollient. 

Samples Free by Mail 

Cutlcura Soap and OIntnirnt wild throughout tlie 
world. Liberal sample of each nialle<l free, with 32-p. 
book. Address "Cutlcura." r>ept. 133. Boetoo. 

(^^I^T^iJf^ A^ihVtfC^^^KC' 

A Useful Gift 

Is Always Appreciated 

The next] time you stop at your local 
stationer. Jeweler or Druggist, ask him 
to showj you his assortment of 


You will find beautiful gold mounted, 

pearl handle, plain and chased pens that 

are attractive presents. 

$2.00 and [up. 

Our safety pens never leak and 
are con\'enient for the ladies. 
Perhaps our catalogue would give 
vou some suggestions for Christ 
inas. We will be happy to tnail 
vou a copy. It shows our com- 
plete line of Self -Fillers, Middle 
Joint, Lower! End Joint, and 
Safety Fountain Pens. 

Arthnr A. Waterman & Compaay, 


l^iot connected with 
L. E. Waterman Company 




It was late in the afternoon. For an 
hour no ship, except that which had 
been destroyed, had showed within the 
green horizon rim. But now, far to 
the west, black objects rose from time 
to time — the watching Japanese battle- 
ships and cruisers, turning back and 
forth at their guard stations off Port 
Arthur. They were barely in sight, 
and Yasui ordered the helmsman to 
avoid them. 

However, they had told him that 
to-day the blockade was as usual ; that 
the Russians had not dared to come 
out; that, not having heard, now they 
could not hear of the Yashima! 

The slow sun of late May sank over 
the Laoteshan mountains. Its long, 
fiery rays glowed over the steep cliffs 
below Port Arthur; their magnificent 
red radiance spread over the water. 
And now, straight ahead, lay a shoal, 
sown thick with the Russian mines. 

The Sansanami, steering for this, was 
seen by the light cruisers and destroyers 
which had relieved the armoured 
vessels before the harbour's mouth. 
The nearest signaled a warning. 

But Adachi Yasui only requested 
Majuka to hold to the course. Having 
ordered that generous rations, with a 
cup of sake, be given to each man, he 
went below to see that all had drunk. 

From the tiny cages of bamboo, 
where the sailors kept little green and 
black crickets as pets, a cheerful chirp- 
ing assailed him. Glancing about, he 
saw that the bits of rind upon which 
the crickets fed, recently had been 
pressed into each little cage. 

Suddenly, in his transport of glorious 
expectation, came to him the recollec- 
tion of the line spoken by the poet, 
Basho, upon parting with a friend, 
hearing the crickets. 

"Nothing in the cicada's voice 
Gives token of a speedy death." 

How beautiful! But — an uncon- 
trollable shout from above! Already 
the Sansanami was upon the mines! 

Adachi leaped for the ladder; but 
too late to see it. His fingers felt 
under his coat for the little box of his 
brother's ashes 

Sub-lieutenant Yasui, late in com- 
mand of torpedo boat of the third class. 
No. 108, slowly recognized that the 
man bathing his face was strong 
Takesaburo, the stoker. Still more 
slowly he realized that he and Takesa- 
buro were in a little boat half full of 
water, and that blood stained the water 
in it — that he and the stoker alone 
lived of those that had been upon the 
Sansanami, and that nothing remained 
of the torpedo boat but a few floating 
splinters, and the little leaking dinghy 
to which Takesaburo must have swum 
with him. 

Yet the red glow of the sun behind 
the Russian forts seemed no less. To 
his men death must have come as 

J^or Ghrisfmas jy^orrjirjg 


And throughout the day the taking 
of pictures of all that goes to make that 
day a merry one. 


Catalogue free at your dealer's 
or by mail. 


swiftly as to those upon the Caesar. 
Blood covered J^Takesaburo's big 
body; he was surely hurt badly; yet 
he had thought only of his commander; 
and his thick fingers had been bathing 
and bandaging so tenderly. He had 
stripped himself entirely to thrust 
strips of his clothes into the leaking 
seams of the boat; and he had labored, 
so smilingly, to keep it afloat till the 
Japanese destroyer, which had sig- 
nalled the Sansanami the moment be- 
fore, could come to them. 

How sad to tell Takesaburo that he 
had done only wrong. 

"Takesaburo, for our country's 
safety, we without warrant took the 
lives of foreigners neutral upon the 
vessel Caesar, which we destroyed. 
Wherefore — in order that no harm may 
come upon our comrades for this — ^we, 
with our lives, must satisfy the crime. 
To us who have left Japan fully deter- 
mined to turn into dust under the hoofs 
of His Majesty's steed, declaring, 
'Here I stand ready to die,' has come 


// is the Task, the Flavor of 


That Makes It 
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subjected to a perfect me- 
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Made in Canada by 

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Established 1780 
Montreal, Can. Dorchester, Mass. 


Absorbine, Jr. 

It gives prompt 
relief from aches 
and pains — it keeps 
little cuts and 
bruises from be- 
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— protects sensitive 
throats from infec- 




This doubles its efficiency and its uses. Absorbine. 
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so harmless and safe to use — made of pure herbs and 
contains no acids or minerals. 

FOR TOOTHACHE. A few drops of Absorbine. Jr. 
rubbed on the gums or applied on cotton to cavity 
will promptly stop the aching. But don't let the 
rt'lief from pain keep you from your dentist. 
FOR CUTS, BRUISES. Absorbine, Jr., takes out 
soreness, kills the germs, makes the part aseptically 
clean and promotes rapid healing. 

promptly ; reduces inflammation and swelling. 
$1.00 and $2 00 per bottle at dealers or delivered. 
Send 10 cents for liberal trial bottle or pro- 
cure regular size from your druggist to-day. 

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512 Lymus BIdi. Montreal, Can. 


the cherished opportunity to perish for 
our country's safety." 

He thought, for an instant, and, 
finding in a pocket two chestnuts, he 
offered one to the stoker. 

"This was offered to the gods by my 
mother, and she told me to eat this 
without fail before offering myself to 
die. I will eat one, and do you also eat 
one. This must be our last farewell. 
Remember me as your true elder 
brother to eternity!" 

Takcsaburo, the stoker, understand- 
ing, reached for his knife. His features 
were composed and his hand steady; 
only, being of low birth, his clumsiness 
and lack of confidence in the presence 
of his superior abashed him. 

"Lieutenant, if you really think of 
me as your younger "brother," he 
requested, respectfully pointing to the 
officer's pistol, "do you please " 

Sub-lieutenant Yasui, alone remain- 
ing of those that had forfeited their 
lives, saw that he had still a moment to 
prepare himself calmly and with digni- 
fied exultation. 

He took from his coat the ashes of 
his brother and strewed them reverent- 
ly before him. 

Tearing Takesaburo's rude calking 
from the side of the boat so that it must 
rapidly sink, he took the stoker's sharp 
knife in his hand. 

Baring his abdomen, he bowed twice, 
firmly repeating his consecration so 
that, for the unjustifiable wrong he had 
done, he and those already dead might 
bear the retribution and take it from 
his superiors in the service of his 

So he §poke to the spirits of the dead. 
"I, and I alone, was responsible for 
the order given to fire upon the neutral 
boat-of the-foreigners, Caesar, and for 
the unwarrantable death of those which 
I caused. For this crime I disembowel 
myself, and I beg you who are present 
to do me the honor of witnessing the 

So, as the little boat sank, the 
rescuing torpedo boat found upon the 
water only a spot of blood — still red, 
for the instant, red as the last glow of 
the sun over the Russian hills. Ac- 
cordingly those upon the torpedo-boat 
believed that they had witnessed 
merely the useless self-destruction of a 
too proud, foolish boy who had lost his 
ship. But their superiors, to whom 
they reported, knew that it was because 
of that blood upon the water that the 
Russians, as they watched from their 
hills for the Japanese ships, still saw 
. always the mighty battleship Yashima 
under the smoke on the horizon; and 
that from that blood the belief that the 
Yashima was with the fleet still fed the 
fears of the Russians as Rojestvensky 
steered his ships for Tsushima! 


Tho General 

There are many ■nlausihU "tests" 
of rofjfiiig, but there Is only ono 
true test — the proof on the roof. 

Therefore, roof your buildings — 
everybuildingon the farm — with 

Certain - teed 


—the roofing with a 15-year-ser- 
vlce-guarantee.The three biggest 
rooflnir mills in the world are behind It, 
to make that miarantee good. 

Your dealer can famish CgrMn-Ufd 
Kooflnirln rolls and shingles— made by 
the General Kooflnsr iUe. Co., vxirld » 
larttest roofing mnnufnctnrtirt. East St. 
Louis, 111., ^larM,■ill^;s, 111., York, Pa. 




Terms 20% down $1-2-3 Weekly 

Let us send you a Diamond on approval 

at our expense. 
The Jacobs' credit system enables you to 
make beautiful Christmas Presents with- 
out the outlay of much money. Diamonds 
increase in value lOto 20 percent, each year. 


A Diamond is the best investment you can make. 

Send for Catalogue to-<Uy. Now. Don't delay. 


Special Holiday discount of 10 per cent, on all rash 
purchases. Ail transactions strictly confidential. 
Payments may be made weekly or monthly. We 
send Diamonds to any part of Canada for your 
inspection at our expense. 


Diamood Importers 
15 Toronto Arcade Toronto, Canada 

'' Tlamed 

An Ideal Holiday Gift. 
Are better than marking ink for wearing 
apparel, household linen, etc. Any name in 
fast color thread can be woven into fine white 
cambric upe. $2.00 for 12 doz., $1.25 for 6 doz.. 85c 
for 3 doz.. duty paid. These markings more than save 
their cost by preventing laundry losses. They make a 
dainty, individual gift. Have your friends' name woven, 
Orders filled in a week through your dealer, or write lot 
samples, order blanks, catalogue of woven names, trim- 
mings, frillings, etc.. direct to 

J. & J. CASH, Ltd. 

301D SI. James Street. Montreal, Can. 

Or 304 Cliestnut Street, South Worwalk, Conn. 



St. Nicholas and 
the Lovers 

Continued from page 89. 

"Fanny ! What the — ^what is it ? 
Are you ill ? Merry Christmas." 

"Come out here, quick !" 

In a moment the astounded Allen 
emerged, his head tousled and over 
his pajamas a bathrobe. "What on 
earth " 

"Don't talk. Cecelia's discovered 
that the picture is gone. She's made 
an awful scene. She nearly tore me 
limb from limb. I was so frightened 
I nearly died. She's sitting there 
now moaning and going on like a 
maniac. I never saw such a fool. We've 
got to do something." 

"Do something," weakly repeated 
Fritz. "Do " 

"Right now. Do something. If 
you could hear her ! My heavens, I 
never had such a time in my life." 

"But wh — wh- — what are you going 
to do ?" he asked helplessly. 

"I've thought it all out. There's 
just one chance to save our lives. 
You've got to go and get Lucius and 
tell him Cecelia wants to see him." 

Allen gasped. "Lucy. But — O, 
my good Lord ! But suppose- " 

"You needn't suppose anything. 
There's just one chance ! They're 
both silly about each other, and if he 
gets there and sees her, he'll try to 
comfort her and — go— now. Tell him 
to bring the picture, too." 

The thoroughly confused Allen de- 
parted, rubbing his eyes. He found 
Lucius still sitting in a daze before his 
little table, the portrait in his hand. 

"Say," Fritz began awkwardly, 
"Cecelia has sent for you. She wants 
to see you to-night — now. Don't wait. 
She's in a hurry !" 

"Wants to see me ?" asked Pretty- 
man. "What " 

"Now — right off — in the studio. I 
don't know what for. Come on. 
Bring the miniature." 

But — but " 

(), say, Lucy, the girl wants you. 
Come on." And he half dragged, half 
pushed the older man from his room, 
feebly protesting. Fanny stole be- 
hind them on tiptoe. 

"Don't mind what she says," en- 
couraged Allen at Cecelia's door. 
"You go in and make it all right with 
.her !" 

Without listening to Prettyman's 
vague ramblings and distressed pro- 
. tests, Fritz opened the door and shoved 
him in. 

"Reach in and get the key and lock 
the door — on the outside," commanded 
Fanny at his elbow. 

The key turned in the lock. 

"Now, we'll have to stand here and 
wait and " began Fanny. 

Kill two birds with one stone and travel 

via THE 


to the 


If you are planning your 1915 trip to San Francisco, make sure your 
ticket reads via Canadian Pacific, otherwise you will miss the grandeur 
beauty of nature's most stupendous works — The Canadian Rockies. 




Are important tourist stop-over points on the Canadian Pacific Railway 
route to the Pacific Coast. These have excellent hotel accommodation, 
with opportuntles for riding, climbing, i^wimming, boating and golf. 

Agents will personally call on you to arrange your itinerary. 
Write, phone or call on nearest C. P. R. Representative. 


General Tourist Agent, 

Canadian Pacific Railway, 

"And pray," finished Fritz. 

From within came low murmurs — 
then long silences — then again the 
murmurs. With long silences — -then 
again the murmurs. With chattering 
teeth and shivering limbs Fanny and 
Fritz waited — waited, it seemed to 
them, for hours. A few dwellers in 
the top-story passed them and stared 
curiously, but Fanny and Fritz were 
oblivious. After a long time they 
heard some one rattling at the door. 
Fanny drew a long breath. 

"Open it," she directed. "For bet- 
ter or for worse." 

Lucius Prettyman emerged. On 
his face was a sentimental smile of 
utter blissfulness. 

"Merry Christmas, Lucy," ventured 

"I — -I've had a — -a beautiful Christ- 
mas present — it's Cecelia. We — we're 
engaged," he grinned bashfully. 

"Thank heaven, I can go to bed," 
remarked Fanny. 



When Stores are Dear 

And remember that every bottle of Bovril contains 
the nourishment and stimulating qualities of many 
pounds of beef. It is because of its unique feeding 
properties that Shackelton, when planning his great 
Antarctic Expedition, said — It must be Bovril. 

Of all stores, etc. at X-oz. 25c.: 2-oz. 40c.; 4-oz. 70c.; 8-oz. $1.30; 16 02. $2.25. 
Bovril Cordial, large. $1.26; 6-0*. 40c. 16-oz. Johnston's Fluid Beef (Vimbos) $1.20. 


I*." The names of Canadians visiting this hotel are immediately communi- 
cated to the general manager, who personally arranges for their comfort 
and accommodation. The "Old Country" atmosphere of hospitality is 
combined with the most modern American hotel conveniences at the 





You can secure a pleasant room and bath for $2.50 per day. Our $1.50 
table d'hote dinner, served in the Louis XV. room, is regarded as the best 
in the country, and is accompanied by the music of a full orchestra 
with vocal quartettes by singers from the MetropoHtan Opera House. 
For literature and reservations address our Canadian advertising agents. 




How Do You Know That You Are 

Getting All the'Time for Which 

You Are Paying Wages? 

Any system of recording the 
arrival and departure of employees 
that is dependent for its success 
upon the honesty and energy of a 
clerk is liable to go wrong. Every 
time keeper has his friends, his prejudices, 
and his weaknesses. He is only human ! 
The Dey Dial Time Recorder [(illustrated 
here) is adjusted and regulated to the 
highest pitch of absolute accuracv It 
cannot go wrong unless tampered with, 
and a simple movement of the pointer 
records the actual time of arrival and 
departure of each employee, "lates" being 
automatically shown in different colored 

The Dey is made in many different 
sizes and st> les. We have a Dey clock 
that will just suit your business. Cata- 
logue I has many valuable pointers^ for 
every merchant. Write us for it. 

International Time Recorder Co. 

of Canada, Limited. 

19-21-23 Alice Street, Toronto, Ont. 

Card Indexing 
the Babies 

Continued from page 98. 

keep not only these utensils, but all 
others, as clean as the milk. 

Even here, the staff reported pro- 
gress. After which the white-clad 
ladies got talking among themselves 
and speedily soared into regions too 
rarefied for the lay mind, while a 
blue-dressed, black-lace-shawled gypsy 
waited lor her offspring's bottle out- 
side the enclosure and the reporter 
investigated the oven where the lx)ttles< 
were baked overnight in a temperature 
of 250 degrees in order to ensure the 
absolute cleanliness that even washing 
soda and the laws of Moses couldn't 

After a drink of sixteen per cent, 
cream as a reward for not talking, the 
reporter was led back to the taxi and 
whirled off down town to where the 
Island Queen was about to cast off 
her hawser for an ali-aftemoon sail out 
on the Lake. Mr. Solman, the boat's 
owner, donates her for three afternoons 
a week, a daily newspaper provides 
an equipment and the ever-watchful, 
cheerfully-cooperating Health Board 
comes through with two nurses and 
an assistant. The cargo provides it- 
seli to the tune oi sonje 200 as an aver- 
age, babies not sick but ailing, and 
mothers, just smoky-lunged from the 
city and din-tired and weary with 
pushing a go-cart as a necessar>' 
accompaniment to getting outdoors. 

The two nurses sat at a table while 
the mothers passed in a long line. 

"Breastfed or bottlefed?" asked the 
little nurse. 

"Bottlefed, please Miss." 

"What formula?" was the next 
query, as the assistant made out a 
tea-and-biscuits card for the mother 
herself, said card good for later on in 
the afternoon. 

"And will you believe it," the re- 
porter was told, "we've never found 
a woman yet who didn't know her 
baby's formula! Doesn't that speak 
pretty well for the instruction our 
nurses give in the homes?" 

Then, while the tired housekeepers 
go up on deck, and the little whimperers 
slumber in the hammocks provided, 
or watch the gulls over the blue water, 
or just lie still and think, babywise, 
the nurses and their assistant make 
up the feedings, and by the time the 
mothers come with their tea-tickets, 
the bottles are ready for the kiddies. 

Last of all we went back to the 
Creche where Queenie lies in her 
white crib and here we talked a little 
of the wonderful scheme whereby the 
Health Department enlists the chari- 
table lady and the crusty old doctor 
and the boat-magnate and the clergy- 



man and the little tenement mother- 
kins with her pigtail down her back. 
The Central Office at the City Hall 
deals only with the three supervisors 
of districts and the nurse and her 
assistant who are in charge of all clinics. 
For the rest, the army runs itself, over 
the 'phone, through the mail, by taxi 
and bicycle messengers. 

The Malby Family and Isabella- 
from-Liverpool and Queenie-without- 
a-name never see the coral sweet peas 
on the green blotting pad in the Super- 
intendent's office. But the Superin- 
tendent sees them, just as she sees 
Monty and Francesca doing folk dances 
in the Creche kintergarten and Mrs. 
Millions taking the Jones baby out 
in her motor, and the Tomkins boy 
having his tonsils bloodily removed 
down at the General Hospital, and 
the Girls' Club that provides ice for 
nothing to those who'll build an ice- 

"Teamwork, teamwork," says the 
Superintendent, "march apart and 
fight together. That's it." 

Lord, what a fight ! 

Soldiering at 

Continued from page 109. 

four cruisers lay at anchor, close to the 
shore. Up and down the bay, from 
the misty horizon between the two 
headlands to the quiet water by the 
marsh and railway bridge, the trans- 
ports stood in three long lines. There 
were liners and freighters of all shapes 
and sizes from the towering "Lap- 
land" and the "Andania" to horse 
transports like the "Monmouth" and 
ihe "Lakonia." Some like the "Royal 
( .eorge" and the "Royal Edward," 
were in their steelgray warpaint. 
( )thers, like the "Laurentic," were 
having the glittering white of their 
upper works painted over. Signals 
were winking from the bridges of the 
warships and being answered by the 
"flag flappers" of each battalion on the 
different ships. We stared up and 
down the bay, assuring each other 
that "this was the biggest lot of ships 
that ever crossed the Atlantic together,' 
when a hail from below drew our 
attention to one of the rough motor 
dories which the Gaspe fishermen seem 
to like. We forgot all about the 
Armada at once. There was a chance 
to get off some letters. 

For five minutes they fluttered 
around the boat like snowflakes. Some 
floated away on the tide. The ma- 
jority were captured. We cheered the 
three fishing lasses as they started the 
engine and drew away. 

Five hours later we saw the last of 
Canada, mountains deep blue on the 


' ^^a-^^ 



'Camp" goes further and lasts 
longer than any other coffee. "Camp" 
is delicious and usable to the last drop. 
It never goes stale. 

You make each cup just 
as you want it — simply 

adding boiling water. 

No dregs or grounds. 

Pure— and so economical 

Get "Camp " from your grocer, and try it to-day. 




— y-&ii£^,.:f. ■:&iii.Siii^.r.,i^ 


Canadian Bank of Commerce 



CAPITAL $15,000,000 REST $13,500,000 

SIR EDMUND WALKER. C V.O.. LL.D.. DC L.. President 


General Manager 

V. C. BROWN, Superintendent of Central Western Branches 


Assistant General Manager 



Interest at the current rate is allowed on all deposits of $1.00 and 
upwards. Small accounts are welcomed. Accounts may be opened in 
the names of two or more persons, withdrawals to be made by any one of 
the number. 

Accounts can be opened and operated by mail as easily as by a 
personal visit to the bank. 

horizon against a flaming sunset. Per^ 
haps half of us stayed up on deck for 
a last look at our native land. The 
rest went below to play bridge. 

For three days after we passed Cape 
Race and got fairly out into the long 
Atlantic swells, the transports did 
more or less corkscrewing. Packages 
of seasick remedy were served out to 
all hands. The experienced and liardy 
members of the force with an eye to 
extra meals, did their best to drive 
others away from the dinner table by 
intimate discussions of all the details of 

seasickness. They were disappointed. 
The hard work at Valcartier and the 
week on board ship in quiet water had 
given us all our sea legs, and probably 
not more than ten per cent, of the 
contingent missed even a single 

Getting enough to eat became a 
serious problem before the voyage was 
far under way. Stores apparently 
had been laid in on calculations based 
on the appetites of ordinary passengers. 
Muscular young fellows in first class 
physical condition are not ordinary 






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passengers, and the salt air made us 
all feel that we could eat the regular 
meals three or four times over. 

The barber shop canteen was bought 
out in two days. We advanced on 
the other positions previously recon- 
noitred, the kitchens and the bakery. 
Pies intended for the officers went for 
thirty-five cents to fifty cents; buns 
at six for a quarter. The chief steward 
tried to stop traffic by threatening to 
send the cooks down to the stokehold, 
and by counting pastry as soon as it 
was baked. But all to no purpose. 
The "scouts" used to slip down the 
passage near the bakery door late at 
night after "Lights Out," pop through 
a side entrance behind the ovens and 
presently emerge with slight bulges 
under their great coats. 

Another chance for "scouting" came 
when fatigue parties were sent down 
to the hold to bring up suppHes. The 
hold is dark and much useful loot was 
stored there. One private in our 
company on fatigue, twice got halt a 
dozen cakes of chocolate and two 
bottles of claret. 

The routine of drill was not heavy. 
We only had enough to prevent our 
getting out of condition and forgetting 
what we'd learned at Valcartier. 

There was a morning tramp of two 
miles round and round the deck with 
full packs on. The march was fol- 
lowed by stifT physical drill. After- 
noon parade consisted of a run around 
the deck and instruction in semaphore 
signalling. In the evening we had 
lectures on outpost duty, on attack 
and defence and on measures to avoid 

Drills and lectures occupied at most 
four hours a day. In the oflftime, 
singing, writing, cards and sky-larldng 
were the order of the day. Soldiers 
are like overgrown boys in many ways, 
especially when they are passing out 
of the recruit stage. Accordingh- 
there were lockstep processions to the 
tune of "It's a Long Way to Tipper- 
ary," and impromptu dances in the 
moonlight in the first week or so of the 
voyage. Later on, these antics were 
reserved for the nightly concerts, along 
with recitations of "Gunga Din" and 
minstrel sextets. 

In the e\'enings, e\'erybod\, more or 
less, played cards or wrote letters. 
A fa\orite plan was a day by day letter 
to the family or the one and only. It 
was a curious scene — the smoking 
room which the men in the ranks had 
as their den — in one comer a dozen 
men lined up waiting to get ginger 
ale; at half the tables, groups betting 
loudly over games of euchre and five 
hundred ; and at the rest of the tables, 
fellows with paper in front of them 
and pens in their hands, staring ab- 
stractedly at the ceiling through a fog 
of pipe smoke. 

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In spite of the fact that the whole 
contingent was hived in thirty-two 
transports and that the transports 
kept close together, the men on each 
ship were as ignorant of what was hap- 
pening on the others as if they had 
been on the farther side of the ocean. 
We did not even know what regiments 
were on which ships. 

We were in three hnes close together 
with a war ship at the head of each 
line, a war ship on each fiank and a 
war ship out in front and another in 
tiie rear. We showed no lights at 
night. No boat was permitted to use 
its wireless except the Admiral's and 
he only used it to overhear anything 
that was being said. AH communica- 
tion was done by signalling from boat 
to boat. 

One morning I was sitting in the 
smoking cabin on A deck (the top 
one) when we heard the siren of our 
boat give a number of short blasts. 
This was the signal for man overboard. 
Naturally we all rushed out and sure 
enough there was a man's head bobbing 
m the water alongside us. The engines 
were reversed and a number of life 
preservers thrown. 

Of course when we stopped the whole 
fleet stopped and there was a certain 
amount of danger that some of the 
boats would pile up on one another, as 
they very nearly did and you may be 
sure we weren't at all free from ner- 
vousness when we saw the Monmouth 
bearing down on us. I understand 
our captain didn't use altogether 
printable language either. We lowered 
a boat, but just before doing so the 
man in charge found he was one short, 
so called for another. Capt. Hargraft, 
of the 90th Regt., Winnipeg, was stand- 
ing near and jumped in. They picked 
up their man and he had to sit in the 
bottom and hold his hand over a hole 
(the bung for which had been lost) 
while we all were deriving great amuse- 
ment under the belief that he was 

It turned out that he was a sailor 
from the Royal Edward, immediately 
ahead of us. The only news of the 
outside world that filtered in was an 
occasional short Marconi bulletin, two 
or three hundred words long. And 
they contained nothing but very brief 
summaries of War news, and such 
Items of British interest as that "Lord 
So-and-So, for sixty years keeper of the 
Royal Shoehorn, died suddenly to- 
day." At the date of writing we are 
still in ignorance of the winner of the 
World's Series. 

Twice the monotony of ordinary 
drill was relieved by an order that all 
hands take a bath. 

"Parade with a towel and a smile," 
said the sergeants. So we marched 
up on deck in that garb, left the towels 
hanging on the rail and marched under 


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a stream of icy sea water from a hose 
manipulated by one of the crew. It 
was refreshing, if not particularly 

For three days near the end of the 
journey, sports took the place of drill. 
There were three-legged races and 
wheelbarrow races and rope climbing 
contests and a score of similar events. 
Best of all was the obstacle race. Each 
competitor, stripped to a shirt, had to 
crawl through a canvas chute filled 
with coal dust and flour, climbed under 
or over several other impediments and 
finally negotiate a tangle of ropes while 
a hose was played on him at the range 
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The officers' pillow fighting astride 
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A MAN tried to sell ine a liorse once. He said it was a fine horse and had nothing the 
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Washing Machines by mail. I have sold over half a million that way. So, thought I, 
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pay for them, just as I wanted to try the horse. 

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the ranks applauded loudly. When 
one stern captain received a pillow 
full on his rather prominent nose, and 
swung headlong off the spar, the cheers 
of the men in his company could be 
heard for miles. 

The evening of the last sports day, 
we had an impressive demonstration 
of naval power. H. M.S. Queen Mary, 
one of the newest and largest ships in 
the navy, passed through the convoy. 
Stripped of all lumber and in steel- 
grey warpaint, the big dreadnought 
cruiser was awesomely 
Above her abnormally long lean hull, 
one could see four turrets, each carry- 
ing slim black guns, three huge fun- 
nels, and a high bridge. She slipped 
through the swells with scarcely a 
movement. The big liners, towering 
in the air, looked slow and unwieldy 
beside this swift sea snake. And about 
all that any of us could say was, "God, 
what a ship !" With craft like this 
to keep the seas, one could understand 
why the North Atlantic is a British 
pond, and why our trip across the 
ocean was without disturbing inci- 

To Say Him 

Continued from page 96. 

into the current below. On both sides 
of the run-a-way river gangs of men 
worked feverishly, building break- 
waters to keep the current from eating 
further into the roadbed. A huge 
tree fell into place as they stood, its 
bushy top reaching far out from the 
bank like a miniature forest. A gang 
of trackmen passed them having left 
their lorry at the edge of the danger 
area, and fell into work. Across the 
gap another lorry approached, was 
stopped and lifted from the track, and 
the men came forward carrA'ing axes 
and poles. McNaughton noticed that 
they were supplemented by lumber- 
men from the camp up the river. 

At the very end of the long steel- 
ribboned track a pufT of smoke showed 
dimly in the haze of sunrise. Mrs. 
Maloney watched it for a moment, 
then turned toward her companions 
with a question. 

"An' what would that be over 
there, sor ?" 

"Probably a work train, from Swan 
River coming down with ballast," he 
said. "She's made a record trip all 

"An' will she be goin' back ?" 
"WTien the cars are unloaded, yes." 
"An' is it Subdruy it do be goin' to?" 
"No, Mrs. Maloney, only back as 
far as Swan River." 

"An' where would that be ?" 
"About twenty miles further on." 

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' 'Twenty miles nearer Sudbruy thin , ' ' 
she said wistfully. "If we were only 
acrost we'd be goin' on her that far." 

"You couldn't ride on a work-train, 

"I think they'd be takin' me if I 
told them about Jimmy, if only I could 
get acrost." 

"That's a very great 'if at present, 
Mrs. Maloney." 

"This thrack, now," she glanced 
across the shining line of steel which 
bridged the chasm, "I'm that light — 
shure Jimmy could carry me undher 
his arm." 

McNaughton whirled on her in 

"Mrs. Maloney," he cried, "don't 
think of such a thing ! There are 
gaps out there you could never jump 
across; and even your weight might 
loosen any one of those ties and send 
it down into the river — you with it. 
Besides, it would give and sway with 
your weight and motion. It would 
take a very quick and level-headed 
man for a thing like that. It would be 
absolutely impossible for — for you." 

"I suppose so, an ould body like 
me," she answered, "but I feel that 
certain I could do it !" 

McNaughton found her a seat near 
some other of the passengers. A 
moment later he was called away to 
give advice regarding the placing of 
the impromptu retaining wall. 

"I will come back again in a little 
while, Mrs. Maloney," he promised. 
"You'll be comfortable, won't you ?" 

"Shure an' I will that. I'll just 
bide here till you come -back, forbye 
the raft goes before then." 

A man near turned toward her 
curiously. "They won't make a 
raft," he said, "not till the line's pro- 
tected, and probably not then. Most 
people'llfgo back with our train to 
Lancelot, and they'll get a track across 
here by night." 

"There'll be a boat to take me 
across," she insisted anxiously, "I'm 
Jimmy Maloney 's mother, an' I've 
got to get seein' him when the throop- 
train gets into Sudbruy. Don't ye 
think there will, sor ?" 

"Maybe so, maybe so," the man 
answered, "but if I were you I'd go 
back with this train and go to Val- 

Mrs. Maloney said nothing. She 
sat with wistful eyes on the puffing 
work-train just across that stretch of 
muddy water, and on the shining rails 
that glinted and beckoned to her to 
follow their luring path. Perhaps the 
man was right about the raft. ;. Per- 
haps Jimmy's train would come, and 
go, 'and so she would not see him. 
Perhaps, oh, perhaps, she would never 
see him again. And he would go 
without all the precious things in the 
basket, without ever knowing how 
she had loved and worked for him. 


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And she would go back to the miser- 
able little cottage at Keppel Comers, 
where there was not even the "bit 
pig" to squeal a welcome, — -go back 
and unpack the things that were 
Jimmy's, and he'd never know — per- 
haps he'd never know! 

She stood up uncertainly, taking a 
hesitating step toward the track. The 
watchman set to guard it had dis- 
appeared ; there were few people about 
now; most of them had gone back 
to Kepanegan in the hope of break- 





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fast. She moved slowly to the crumb- 
ling edge. Did she dare to go ? 
The work-train was still standing in 
its place. Car after car had been 
unloaded. It might pull out any 
minute — now, while she watched — and 
her last chance to see Jimmy would 
go out with it. She must go quickly. 
Dared she go ? Her heart beat, chok- 
ing, in her throat and the hand that 
clutched the basket trembled. Her 
knees shook under her so that she 
could hardly stand. 

"Shure I'm that wake," she whis- 
pered, "I'll be fallin'." 

"The work-train gave a warning 
whistle and she started desperately 
forward. Before her the morning sun- 
shine fell white and dazzling on the 
shining steel. She saw the little glit- 
tering shimmer of light on the poplar 
leaves and the stir of workmen across 
the gap. Then everything went into 
a misty golden blur that was like the 
smoke of battle, and in it she saw — 
not the big, strong son whom she was 
going to meet — but a little blue-eyed, 
curly-headed lad that twelve years 
before had been "the widow Maloney's 

She was out four or five steps (four 
or five ties) from the edge of the chasm. 
Under her weight a tie went down. 
She stumbled, saved herself, panic- 
stricken, but still clutching the precious 

"Dear God," she prayed, "help a 
poor ould body like me. Help poor 
ould Annie Maloney all by her lone." 

She said it over and over; its 
repetition someway helped her. The 
mist cleared from before her eyes. 
She recognized that the ties, bolted 
as they were to the rails and sleepers, 
were bearing her weight. She had a 
strange elate confidence. They were 
shouting to her now from the bank, 
but she did not listen. Her eyes never 
left the ties, watching for safe footing. 
More than once a tie had dropped. 
In one place two, but she had ceased 
to be afraid. 

"They shall bear thee up in their 
hands." — "They shall bear thee up in 
their hands." — "Dear God, help an ould 
body. Help poor ould Annie Maloney." 
— "Bear thee up in their hands." — 
"Bear thee up in their hands." 

Once she stumbled and fell, but 
was up and on again while the crowd 
gathered at either end still held their 
breath. How far it was ! What 
miles and miles ! — "Bear thee up in 
their hands. "^ — The end must be near, 
but she dared not look. — "Oh God, 
help poor ould Annie Maloney." — 
What ! Sand ! Ballast ! The land 
again ! Breaking in on the music of 
her promise, "Bear thee up — " came 
the ringing 'Rah ! 'Rah ! 'Rah ! of the 
men. She grew suddenly faint and 
sick, and a man put his arms around 

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her and laid her gently down on the 

She woke because they were trying 
to take her basket. 

"Lave it be," she said sternly, " 'tis 
for Jimmy." Then, struggling to a 
sitting posture, "The thrain, its niver 
gone ?" 

"Here yet. Just getting ready to 
back away." 

She rose unsteadily to her feet. 



"Shure I'm goin' on it," she said. 
"That's why I come. I've just got 
to see Jimmy at Sudbruy. He's goin' 
for a soldier," she explained, "I^must 
say him good-bye." »f- 

Ten minutes later she was sitting 
in the caboose of the work-train. She 
leaned out toward the group of work- 
men who stood below the little win- 

"When yez get acrost to the other 
side," she said, "will yez be good 
enough to say to Misther McNaughton 
— he's a big up-standin' man an' looks 
a bit like my Jimmy — say til him I 
was that ashamed, comin' off without 
so much as a thank ye, an' tell him 
they say there's a thrain goin' up to 
Sudbruy from Swan River, as '11 get 
there forninst the throop-train comes. 

The engine puffed wamingly. From 
both banks men swung their hats and 
shouted and the train was off. 

The Jade Earring 

Continued from page 120. 
apparently found it satisfactory," said I. 

The doctor laughed. "Satisfactory 
isn't precisely the word I should use," 
said he. "It doesn't cover the ground 
at all. In fact, the portrait was so 
vivid and poignant a reminder of Claire 
herself that the sight of it, the day when 
she came here to the studio, upset her 
dreadfully. She looks forward to get- 
ting final possession of it with a mix- 
ture of anxiety and dread. In fact, the 
memory of it has possessed her imagi- 
nation ever since in a way that I, as 
her physician, am forced to regret." 

"The portrait, then," said I, "is 
more like the original than the photo- 
graph from which it was painted ?" 

The doctor nodded. "Strikingly 
so," said he. 

Again I had to draw in a long, slow 
breath to steady myself. But when I 
had done that I managed to say, indif- 
ferently enough: "Oh, well, the ways 
of genius are past finding out. Mr. 
Jeffrey's genius as a portrait-painter 
seems to lie in getting beneath the sur- 
faces of things and presenting the living 

"If he can do that with a living face, 
which is often inexpressive enough to 
the ordinary eye of the character be- 
neath it, it is not so wonderful that he 
should do it, to a less extent, of course, 
with a momentary record of a face as 
it appears in a photograph. It's a 
\ great test of his powers, though, and a 
wonderful compliment to them." 

The doctor nodded thoughtfully, and 
there was a little silence before he spoke 

"Mr. Jeffrey lived in Paris for some 
time, didn't he ?" 

"Oh, years ago," said I. "Long 
before I knew him. Of course, like 

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every painter, he goes back occasion- 
ally or visits." 

"I suppose he's been back there 
within the last four or five years ?" 

"Oh, yes," said I. 

The doctor let another moment go 
by in silence. 

"I am going to be frank with you," 
he said at last, "and I hope you will be 
frank with me. I hope what I have 
already told you of my relation with 
Miss Meredith is enough to clear me 
of the charge of idle curiosity. Miss 

Meredith is far from a well woman. 
She has had the idea, ever since she 
came here to look at Mr. Jeffrey's por- 
trait of her niece, that that portrait 
wasn't painted exclusively from the 
photograph. Mr. Jeffrey must have 
seen and remembered the girl herself. 
And nothing would satisfy her short of 
my coming to ask Mr. Jeffrey if that 
had been the case." 

"I'm sure," said I, "that Jeffrey will 
be glad to go to see her and set her 
mind at rest in the matter." 



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With all the man's easy frankness — 
his almost unnecessary frankness — I 
f oiild not be rid of the feeling that there 
was something wary about him, watch- 
ful, alert. I had had that feeling 
through the whole of our interview. 
.\nd with his reception of these last 
words of mine, it grew tenfold stronger. 

"That won't be nercs^ary," said |ic. 
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be advisable. 
She receives no visitors at all. In her 
present condition she is not able to re- 
ceiw ilicm. But, if you know anything 
about il, one way or another, I wish 
3ou'd tell me. If you don't you can 
ask Jeffrey, when you see him, and 
drop me a h'ne." 

"I could say this much," said !• 
"that I am quite sure if Jeffrey had 
been painting from the memory of any 
living face he had ever seen, he would 
have told me so. He hasn't told me 
so, and therefore I conclude that Miss 
Meredith is mistaken. Surely the mis- 
take is natural enough to one in her 

"Oh, yes. Of cojrse. Of our<c " 
he said without much conviction in ; 
voice. "It strikes me as possiljli 
though," he went on, "that he miglii 
have met her on one of his visits i.i 
Paris, while she was living there, ( r 
have seen her and been struck by hti 
appearance without learning her name. 
I haven't seen her since she was a little 
girl, but I am told she grew into a very 
beautiful woman. So that a memory 
of her might hav-e been evoked by the 
photograph, and could easily have had 
an effect on the portrait without his 
knowing it." 

"That's ingenious at any rate," said 
I, "and almost plausible. How long 
had Miss Claire Meredith Iieen living 
in Paris when she died of smallpox ?" 

"Not quite two years," said the 

"Then I'm afraid that disposes of 
the theory Jeffrey was living with 
me in an apartment on Madison Square 
all that time, and I know he didn't 
leave the country." 

There was a little pause. 

"He did go to Paris two years ago, 
didn't he ?" The doctor said it very 
indifferently, so that it hardly sounded 
like a question at all. But all the 
same, he waited for an answer — waited, 
I'd almost have sworn, a little breath- 

"Oh, \'es," said I. "My wife and I 
visited him there. But that, if my 
dates are right, was a year after the 
young lady died." 

"Oh, yes," he said quickly. "I 
wasn't thinking of that." 

But he had been thinking of just 
that, I felt sure. And unless my im- 
agination was working overtime, he 
was paler than he had been when he 
came in. 

To he continued. 

NO. 3 







What Does Uncle Sam Say ? 

By Zenas E. Black 

THE elevator shuddered, slowed up and stopped at 
the fourteenth floor. My friend and I stepped out 
and walked down the hall of one of Chicago's great 
sky-scrapers. Just as we turned the corner a door, on 
which was lettered "LAW OFFICE," opened and a strong- 
faced, grey-mustached man started hurriedly toward the 
elevator shaft. In passing us he recognized my friend with 
a wave of the hand, a smile, and this: 

"Great news we had this morning, wasn't it ?" 
"You bet 1" my companion responded. 
After we were ensconced in comfortable chairs in his 
office a few minutes later, he took his cigar from his mouth, 
viewed the smoke meditatively for a moment, then said : 
"Did you get what that man meant just now ?" 
"I suppose he was speaking of the news that the German 
advance on Paris has been stopped," was my response. 

"But you don't get the full weight of it. I never spoke 
a dozen words to him in my life. How should he know 
that I, a casual acquaintance, would consider it good news ? 
This set me to thinking. He continued : 
"Here's another angle. You took his pro-Ally state- 
ment as a matter of course. Yet he is a typical American 
citizen, and you're a Canadian down here making explo- 
rations in the American heart to see whether it is beating 
for the King or the Kaiser. Don't you see ? He took it 
for granted that / was for the Allies just as you took it for 
granted that he would be for the Allies. Do you get that ?" 

I GOT it. I saw that what my friend was trying to tell 
me was that every normal citizen of North America 
assumes that his neighbor is normal, and naturally, 
therefore, on the side of the Allies. It was a big thought. 

Then I set out to see if this premise, furnished by Mr. 
Average-American-Citizen-at-Random, was sound. I knew 
it applied at home. Would it hold true throughout the 
land of our neighbors, nationally declared "Neutral ?" 

After a comprehensive and conscientious investigation, 
taking it "by and large," as the writers put it, and laying 
one's hand flat on the map of the United States, I may 
truthfully say: "When England joined France and Russia 
n the war against Germany and Austria, the sentiment of 
the people of the United States went strongly for the 
(Triple Entente, and that sentiment is becoming more 
pronounced every day that the war continues." 

The Kaiser is unhappy over the position Uncle Sam 
lias taken. The German press is frankly disgusted. Says 
the Berlin Deutsche Tages Zeitung: "It seems to be be- 
leath our dignity to go on appearing before the United 
States in the attitude of one who thinks that he must 
i"^tify himself. . . We ask ourselves what is the sense 
all, and whether there is not a point to which we, in 

our position, attacked on all sides, should regard it as a 
duty of self-esteem to adopt an attitude that if a people 
do not believe our words and deeds we will refrain from 
perpetual repetition of our words." 

An American paragrapher, commenting on the above, 
was surprised that Germany had any "self-esteem" left. 

BUT Germany continues to work with might and main 
that Uncle Sam may yet "see the light." Hardly a 
day passes that the editors of every influential news- 
paper and magazine in the United States are not besieged 
by Germans who would sway their opinions. Not long 
ago the German Government, influenced by reports of 
the anti-German attitude of the American press, sent a 
statesman of the first rank to present to America "the 
truth as it appears to German eyes." 

A German professor. Dr. Ernst Daenell, in an article 
translated for the New York Sun, feels that "the heroic 
war Germany has been forced to wage will appeal strongly 
to the kindly instincts inherent in the American character, 
for in many ways the two countries are very much alike." 

The American press, remembering Louvain, did not 
feel flattered by the comparison. 

And don't forget this:— The American press is the 
American people. 

My investigations throughout the United States to 
determine editorial sentiment have brought me to the 
conclusion that the Eastern and Southern parts of the 
United States are almost solidly pro-Ally; that the West 
contains a scattering of pro-German editors but is mainly 
pro-Ally or neutral; and that in the Central states, while 
there are more pro-Ally than pro-German papers, the 
majority of the publications are neutral. 

One familiar with the United States will perceive 
that pro-German sympathy follows pretty closely the 
geographical distribution of the . German-American popu- 
lation The Central -West prairie states contain the 
bulk of Uncle Sam's ten million kraut-eating children. 
In one decade the "Fatherland" sent a million emigrants 
to the United States. But dp not get the opinion that 
one person in every ten in this country is pro-German, 
because he is of Teutonic lineage. Just as it is here in 
Canada, only those who were born and educated in Ger- 
many are rabidly and unalterably anti-Ally — and not 
quite all of them. 

The Boston Transcript, however, says that "Anyone 
who has traveled in the Central-West must have been 
struck by the less thorough and often baldly inadequate 
statement of the war's issues and causes, particularly by 
the newspapers in the smaller cities. Their readers have 
not demanded the elaborate discussion and full statement 

Copyright. I9l5,by Iht VAN DERHOOP.GUNN COMPANY, LIUtTED. All ritkU resened. 



r)f all possible original sources which 
the East has craved. The East has 
done a great deal of thinking, and this 
accounts for the preponderant weight 
of sentiment against the German cause 
in our section." 

The above would seem to be true 
in a measure, since Central-Western 
editors are rapidly deserting, the ranks 
of the neutrals for the pro-Allies. 
Their readers have been aroused by 
the treatment of Belgium. They are 
writing letters to the " People's Column" 
of their favorite papers, and this work 
is bearing fruit. Rest assured that 
the newspapers of the United States 
never hold out strongly against the 
wishes of their constituents. The cir- 
culation department managers see to 

A paper in Denver says: "\ye are 
all striving to live up to the President's 
neutrality proclamation." The word 
"striving" is well chosen. The natural 
sentiment of the unprejudiced Ameri- 
can editor is to come out strongly and 
emphatically for the Allies' cause, 
and to refrain from this requires 
palpable effort. 

In feeling the pulse of the American 
press, one should consider the Saturday 
Evening Post first of all. One person 
out of every ten reads it, and even 
here in Canada it has a circulation of 
perhaps 100,000. For a long time 
Samuel G. Blythe was the Post's lead- 
ing humorist. Along came Irvin S. 
Cobb, and Post readers began to laugh 
in parts of their anatomy that Blythe 
had never discovered. When Blythe 
was commissioned to write war' stufif 
he saw a chance to re-attract attention 
by such statements as: "Kitchener 
must supply an army that will be of 
sufficient consequence to give England 
her part of the spoils when the time 
comes for the peace settlement — that 
is, England must have her share of 
chips in the game if she would partake 
of the pot;" and that the war was 
caused by the "trade rivalry of Ger- 
many and Great Britain," and insinu- 
ating that one was just as bad -as the 

You know how kindly we took to 
those statements. One of our papers 
said: "It may be necessary for the 
Post to explain that Blythe, the writer 
who has offended Canadian readers, 
is a humorist. Then it would be 
necessary to prove it." 

I found that many Americans did 
not like Mr. Blythe's war vaporizings. 
One well-known New York editor 
said to me ; "If your readers in 
Canada would understand Blythe, 
let them turn to G. Bernard Shaw, of 
whom Mr. Blythe is a tenth, or per- 
haps a hundredth carbon copy. Such 
persons fill their proper niche in times 
of peace, I suppose, but when war's 


seriousness comes — let us pass on to 
the next paragraph !" 

That the Post, editorially, does not 
endorse Blythe's written opinion may be 
gathered from this paragraph in the 
issue of October thirty-first: "That 
the Kaiser could have prevented this 
war if he had been whole-heartedly 
devoted to peace seems to us quite 
clear from the published diplomatic 
correspondence; but we have never 
stated that view to a citizen of German 
descent without being accused of Eng- 
lish bias." 

Then hei;e is another of their edi- 
torials, under the caption, "THE WAR 
CULT": "Nietzsche wrote: 'You 
have been taught that a good cause 
justifies even war; but I teach that a 
good war justifies any cause.' To a 
world that is Christian in feeling — 
wherever theological speculation may 
lead its thought — that was an amusing 
paradox, which would have provoked 
a laugh if spoken by a character in a 
Shaw play; but Prussianism has pro- 
duced a type of mind that takes it in 
deadly earnest. No doubt search of 
other contemporaneous literature 
would reveal some incidental and un- 
representative glorification of war for 
its own sake; but in contemporaneous 
Prussian literature such glorification 
has been expressed with much emphasis 
and the beastly notion that fighting 
is mankind's highest interest is essen- 
tially a Prussian militarist cult. To 
suppose that it broadly represents 
German thought is, of course, absurd; 
but the sanction this war cult has 
received in military circles there un- 
doubtedly counted with many in deter- 
mining American sympathies in the 
present war. Our pantheon has no 
niche for Krupp." 

The italics are mine. Don't you 
think that America's strongest weekly 
pubHcation has voiced our sentiments, 
as well as its own ? Doesn't this bear 
out what Mr. Average-American-Citi- 
zen-at-Random said ? 

"Life" shows its serious side in this 
editorial: "A man who returned a 
book by Nietzsche to the Public 
Library remarked as he passed it in: 
'This doesn't get under my skin.' 
The remark applies to the efforts of 
the German apologists in this country. 
Some of these gentlemen have done 
better than others, but none of them 
has got under the American skin. . . 
A good many of us think with sym- 
pathy of Germany's yearning for good 
colonial possessions, where Germans 
may develop as Germans and the Ger- 
man language will not have to yield 
to English, but while we sympathize 
with it, in a way, we are not ready to 
help break up and make over the 
various continents in order to further 
it. . . . No doubt we understand 

and like the English civilization bettei 
than the German because it is basec 
in democracy and is more like oui 
own. . . Nobody seems able tt 

endure German rule but Germans 
They can stand the German methoc 
when they have to. Other peoples 
hate it, and even Germans, once they 
have escaped it, stay away." 

One guess as to how this famous 
editor stands — Norman Hapgood o\ 
Harper's Weekly: — "This war wil 
be won as much by the business sound' 
ness of Great Britain as by any othei 
cause. . . . Why did the British 
Empire not fall to pieces, as Germany 
hoped, when the war broke out ? Be 
cause it was not based primarily or, 
force. The idea of individual liberf 
and local autonomy had been nourishc 
throughout it as in no other grea- 
empire that ever existed. Canad. 
and Australia are as free as the Unitei 
States. Even in South Africa, clost 
to German territory, related in blooc 
and language to Germany, easily re- 
membering a bitter war with England 
apparently not many were found tc 
rebel. . . . Bemhardi's motto is 
'World power or downfall.' England's 
power was gained through long cen- 
turies of trade and exploration, and 
kept because, more at least than othei 
empires, she stood not for dominatior 
but for self-government." 

In the same issue Mr. Hapgood 
remarks: "Frederick the Great said 
'Any war is a good war undertaken tc 
increase the power of the state.' The 
world is now paying a bitter price tc 
prove that Frederick and von Treit- 
zsche and von Moltke were expressing 
a doctrine that must die. It was ar 
even greater than von Moltke— Gusta- 
vus Adolphus — who said: 'The devil 
is very near at hand for those who are 
accountable to none but God foi 
their actions.' " 

Further down on the page these 
pithy paragraphs stand alone: 

"According to St. James: Ye desire 
to have and cannot obtain; thereiore 
ye fight and war and kill." 

"According to the Psalms: God will 
scatter the peoples that delight in 

Americans understood the serrnor 
and its application from simply seeing 
the text. 

But it is impossible to quote from 
all, or even from many of the leading 
magazines and newspapers. Suffice to 
say, America is now studying Germany, 
and the more she learns the less she 
likes her. From Plainview, Texas, to 
Portland, Maine, the press is dissect- 
ing Prussianism for its readers. But 
Americans don't do their thinking alto- 
gether vicariously. M. stands for 
Militarism. A number of librarians 
told me that their patrons kept the 



M shelf empty. Usually Uncle Sam 
maintains regular office hours and his 
wife attends to her knitting. But now 
even the business visitor will be drawn 
into a discussion of war upon the 
slightest pretext, and at the women's 
clubs Germany is investigated instead 
of eugenics. 

Imagine that you are in an American 
home, just as I have been. You will 
find things much the same as here in 
Canada: It is night. The cat has 
been put out and the children tucked 
in bed. Mr. Sam is reading a few 
last bits ol editorial opinion to his 
wife before retiring: "This is a world 
struggle between the demon of force 
and the spirit of freedom, between a 
highly organized militaristic servitude 
and democracy, free speech, self- 
government, justice and human ad- 
vancement. ... In Germany 
nearly 700 books per year have been 
published dealing with war as a science. 
In England and the United States 
people read: Blessed are the peace- 
makers: for they shall be called the 
children of God. But in Germany the 
soul and body of the nation have been 
drilled for offensive and defensive war- 
fare to wipe out effete civilization and 
give the world the blessings of Ger- 
manic culture at the point of the sword 
and the mouth of the cannon." 

"If that is a true statement of Ger- 
man sentiment, the German people 
deserve all they will get," declares Mr. 
Sam, rapping on the table with his 

"It surely doesn't sound Christian- 
like," assents Mrs. Sam. "Let's hear 
what the Germans themselves say," 
continues the head of the house, and he 
picks up "Germany and the Next 
Great War," by Bemhardi (borrowed 
that day from the public library) and 
reads: "War is a biological necessity 
of the first importance, a regulative 
element in the life of mankind, which 
cannot be dispensed with, since with- 
out it unhealthy development will fol- 
low which excludes every advance- 
ment of the race and therefore all real 

civilization " 

"The very idea !" Mrs. Sam inter- 

"The law of the strongest holds good 
everywhere. In all times the right ot 
conquest by war has been admitted. 
It may be that a growing people can- 
not win colonies from uncivilized races, 
and yet the State wishes to retain the 
surplus pKjpulation which the mother 
country can no longer feed. Then the 
only course left is to acquire the 
necessary territory by war. It is not 
the possessor but the victor who then 
has the right. Might is at once the 
supreme right, and the dispute as to 
what is right is decided by the arbitra- 
ment of war. War gives a biologically 
Continued on page 193. 



Drawings by Frederic M. Grant 


DAWNEY (as Dawson Jen- 
kins had dubbed himself 
in the epicene days when 
he wore skirts and curls, without 
foresight that the name 'would leech 
to him when he grew of an age 
to have a contempt for pet names 
and even when he grew past that age 
and began to fondle his upper lip an- 
ticipatively) had from his youth up- 
ward been a Napoleon of the prairie. 
His paternal home was on a bald 
crown of hill tonsured of poplar woods, 
up the face of which the wormwood 
showed gray and the dandelions dawn- 
ed yellow, like the little suns they were, 
out of the gloom of grass. That hill 
was a place for a Napoleon to be born 
uppn and a Byron to sing about — for 
it was the Mount Everest of the whole 
knolly countryside. The heart beats 
lordliest on the loftiest hilltop. 

For all that he was British-born and 
by lineage a United Empire Loyalist, 
Dawney's heart pained him un- 
patriotically when he read of Waterloo. 
He could not help the feeling that if 
he had been there, he would have fought 
for Napoleon, and that in that event 
and with that reenforcement, Napoleon 
would have won. It must however in 
justice be said that Dawney forgot 
wholly the fact that Britons must be 
defeated if Napoleon was to win. The 
Emperor's triumph was the single 
point he considered. It was not 
"Down with the British," but "Vive 

It was with a vast regret that Daw- 
ney, poring over his history in the lee 
of seasonable haystack or grain-stock, 
reflected that all the worlds had been 
conquered and irrevocably parcelled 

out to the various peoples (each 
of whom, it seemed, was ignobly 
content with the allotted portion) 
before he was bom. He was not 
quite sure that he would like to 
have been contemporaneous with 
Hannibal ; for in that event he would 
by now have been 'feo long extinct that 
he would be nothing more than an 
ineffectual pinch of the amalgamated 
dust of ants and heroes. But he 
wished he had been bom in time for 
a real war. 

The South African War had caught 
him too young. Anyway, it had been 
only a skirmish. Kipling, the Jove of 
poets, had handed it nothing but 
gibes — and if any living man knew a 
war when he saw one, Kipling did. 

Moreover, the Britain of Dawney's 
time was a Britain from which came 
the "dam' Englishmen" Dawney as a 
sturdy western Canadian of broad 
"a's" had learned to regard with 
curiosity and contempt. Surely these 
phenomena in leather gaiters and knee- 
breeches that flared at the hip, who 
did not know a plow from a harrow 
and who called the young of cattle 
"cawves" instead of "caavs" were not 
the same as those that had followed 
Drake to the Spanish Main or gone 
with Richard Lionheart to the Crusades. 
He could not imagine these fellows, who 
had to go up into the roofs of their 
mouths to find "a" and who could 
not say "r" at all, it appeared, ripping 
out the rude, strong archaisms of 
"The Talisman" or "Westward Ho !" 
No, Dawney had been born too late. 
He had arrived at nineteen in a period 
of most annoying peace, a time suave 
and sapient, an era deplorably civilized. 


War, glorious war, was fallen on evil 
times. Armaments were ornamental 
only, and military service but a tire- 
some form of physical culture. It was 
now more honorable far to be wealthy 
than to be brave. Even the Indians 
were coming around to this view. A 
sight that epitomized the age's decad- 
ence was that of old Sioux Ben, a 
mighty man of Sitting Bull's day, 
visiting the Oakbum schoolhouse in a 
battered Christy stiff, and advising 
the scholars to study hard in order 
that they might "make plenty money" ; 
telling them fighting was "no good." 


place o' hammerin' away with that 
stick. I want them willows moved 
anyway, so's I can plow there." 

Armed with this authority and a 
scrub-axe (a deadly tool of aggression 
not mentioned in the league ordin- 
ances), Dawney during the next two 
weeks led his poplar Zouaves against 
the willow phalanxes with amazing 
success. At the end of that time, 
there was not a willow, even a strag- 
gler, left; and presently Jim Dover, 
the hired man, drove his ploughshare 
along that hill, effacing even their 
memory. "Never," in the words of 

mission, left the f>oplars to the black- 
birds and woodpeckers, and only went 
to battle in dreams. The time had 
come now, too, when the exigencies of 
the ploughshare and pruning-hook 
claimed Dawney for fourteen hours of 
the day. The change from command- 
ing an army to hauling boulders off 
the land in a stoneboat might have 
been intolerable, if summer had lasted 
all the year round. 

All through seeding, summer-fallow- 
ing, haying and harvest, Dawney threw 
his expectation forward to the rare 
days of late October when he should 

@ ^ m 

No good ! This from him who had 
been Chief Ben Sun-Cloud, aforetime 
begirt and even kilted with scalps. 
Alas ! his sun had set with Sitting 

Dawney came of a fighting stock. 
His father had, at the time of the 
South African War, been too busy 
with his growing family and his adoles- 
cent mortgage to go with the Can- 
adian contingent; but in his younger 
days he had reached out after the only 
thing handy that any way resembled 
war, and had gone to fight the half- 
breeds in '85: coming home with a 
stiff arm and a big white ligature 
around his forehead. Dawney had 
had no such opportunity; but all the 
same he had been a field-marshal at 
ten. There was a [;rove of several 
thousand stalwart young poplars down 
on one side of the road-allowance, and 
a horde of crooked Huns of willows 
facing it on the other side; and the 
times had been not few nor languid 
when Dawney, charging acrosss the 
sixty grassy feet with his teeth gritted 
and his hat set fiercely back, led his 
poplar Old Guard against those wil- 
lows; without much effect however, 
until the day when Dawson Jenkins, 
Senior, happening along in the heat 
of the fight, had enquired casually: 
"Whyn't you take the axe to 'em, son, 

m m ■■ m 

• You heard me right the first time." observed Dawney. "What't the use of 

a fellow eoing to this war and gettin' killed — 

or all crippled up.!" 

the historian, "was a victory 
more complete or more decisive." 
The poplars (safe because they 
were in the field reserved for a 
pasture; this is confided to 
you aside), tall and calmly militant, 
maintained their position trium- 
phantly but not in any way by 
power of awe; for even the scary 
calves that hoisted their tails and 
scampered at human approach, lay 
down without misgiving in the grass 
before this grove and endured without 
apprehension to have sun-patterns 
stippled on their hides by the points of 
light that fell through the leafy umbra. 
Nay, more; in that kind and tranquil 
boscage little birds were brooded and 
bom, and in it the harried prairie 
chicken sought shelter and fortalice 
when the September hunters were 
abroad with license to do grousicide. 
Partly because the army of the wil- 
lows was subjugated and the position 
they had held amply guarded against 
insurrection of a few live roots under- 
soil by the energetic agrarian measures 
of Jim Dover ; and partly because the 
onward march of maturity made this 
sylvan warfare take on an aspect of 
vanity in the eyes of Dawson Napo- 
leon Jenkins: he resigned his com- 

dig up his history-books and renew 
acquaintance with Hannibal, Julius 
Caesar, Hereward-the-Wake, Richard 
Lionheart, Charles XII. and Napo- 
leon. Then, besides, he had his Byron 
and his Kipling. 

Each of the first six gentlemen 
deceased played their part in Dawney's 
development; and Byron helped him 
to see earth's, conquerors in fine per- 
spective. But it was really Kipling — 
and thereby hangs my Tale — who 
helped Da\vney to his first true vision 
of War. And I might add that this 
happened in the spring of eventful 

Kipling is, as everybody knows, a 
bit technical; and it was a difficult 
and stumbling journey for Dawney, 
an untravelled farm boy, when he 
essayed doughtily to traverse the 
"Seven Seas." It was not until IMarch 
29, 1914, that he mastered the book 
sufficiently to start "making pictures" 
in his mind as he read. 

One is forced to be precise about the 
date; for it was on that day, a Sunday, 
that Dawney lighted upon a passage 
which changed utterly his thrilling 
abstract view of war. Dawney, always 
a thoughtful lad and as an only child 
thrown more upon his mental resources 



than if he had had a brother or sister, 
had developed his imagination until 
he could visualize like a camera. 
Armed with this faculty, he suddenly 
encountered this passage: 

"..'Ere's a beggar with a bullet 

through 'is spleen; 
'E's a-chawin' up the ground an' he's 

kickin' all around. . . 
For Gawd's sake get the water. ." 

Dawney closed the book: and im- 
mediately the picture was snapshotted 
in his mind. It was not that of a 
victorious general — a Napoleon on 

had then, during the brief period be- 
tween the first and second shot, bitten 
and flung up the sod as he howled and 
rolled at the end of his chain. This 
helped Dawney, if any help was needed, 
to see still more accurately the vision 
of the stricken man of war. 

The picture conjured up by the 
strong apt lines from "Gunga Din" 
never left Dawney, at least never be- 
yond easy recall, all summer. He 
returned again gingerly to the book 
at odd times during the comparatively 
unhurried season of summer-fallowing, 
and found other passages, little puis- 

teens, while Dawney had yearned and 
chafed for war, the world had imper- 
turbably continued to discourage and 
even make absurd the expectation of 
war, at least of a war in which an 
inveterate warrior could take an 
interest. But now — now when he had 
attained to a viewpoint where peace 
and war had wholly changed per- 
spectives — when he had come to see 
War not as a triumphal march, a 
glorious martial pageant, a clash of 
nations afar ofT in which one grand 
leader, moving eminent against mighty 
odds, held him worshipful ; but as "a 

"Nevertheless," said Herr Friesen, turning back his cufis from great 

hairy wrists scarred with fencing wound-:, "you shall 

now fight me the British way" 

horseback at Eylau, sweeping a grand 
line of charging cuirassiers with eagle 
eye- — a Ney, his dress "ragged with 
bullets" which apparently confined 
their damage to his clothes — a Hora- 
tius for whom an Astur obligingly 
waited while he leaned on Herminius 
to get his wind. No. The picture 
Dawney saw was that of a man, his 
face gray and writhen with agony and 
grimed with the dirt in which he had 
rolled and actually sunk his teeth in his 
terrible, maddening pain, while in the 
front of his tunic a spreading stain 
swiftly brightened from maroon to 
red. Dawney actually felt a kind of 
spasm in the corresponding region in 
his own body — so vividly did the scene 
appear to him. This w^s real war. 
The wars of which he had dreamed 
were pantomimic — or at least that 
was the only aspect of them that 
history, which treats of armies in the 
mass, had permitted him to see. 

Once Dawney's father had shot a 
collie they owned, which had formed 
the habit of chasing and slaughtering 
the hens. He remembered that the 
dog had jumped at the cHck of the 
trigger, so that the charge of buck- 
shot, although it went right through 
him, missed his heart by a little; and 

sant words freighted with im- 
ages — notably one, mentioning 
how "the hugly bullets comes 
peckin' through the dust, an' no 
one wants to face 'em but every 
beggar must" — but none that for 
luminosity approached the grim stanza 
in "Gunga Din." 

In the fierce light of that expert, even 
his comfortably prevalent Napoleon 
shrank behind a veil of blood and pain. 
Dawney's crystal of war was cracked 
worse than the Lady of Shalott's mir- 
ror. Little by little a change crept 
over him. The world peace beneath 
which he had fidgeted in the careless 
rapt days when he had stood adorant 
before the Baal of war grew by fair 
gradations to seem so halcyon, so 
utterly right; so founded, owned and 
directly overseen by the Lord of Hosts 
Himself. Dawney put his hand to the 
plough with a new zest, a. new appre- 
ciation of the existing order of things; 
and in mid-July entered upon the year 
of his majority as a man gets out of 
bed on a serene Sunday morning with 
all discomposure and discontent walled 
up behind eight hours of healthy effac- 
ing sleep. 

Assuredly, the things of the world go 
captiously. All through his tens and 

man rolling and sweating in the death- 
agony with a bullet in his vitals — now 
and without preface or preparation, 
there came suddenly reverberant 
across great waters the din (it seemed 
to the reborn Dawney no harmony 
now) of a whole continent — the great- 
est too and sanest of all the contingents 
in mortal combat ! 

Historic wars ! Why, even the 
Napoleonic struggle, with all the native 
exaggeration of man working over 
three generations in song and story to 
magnify it, shrank and dwindled into 
minority in face of this terrific War 
of Dawney's own cognizant day. 

The war came in with August; and 
before the month had well begun, its 
gravest potentialities ripened into the 
actual, till even in Dawney's tranquil 
settlement had been borne the message 
of the Fiery Cross. Canada, to whose 
people long peace had made the term 
"war" almost an abstraction, was now 
with the rest of the Empire in "a state 
of war;" and the Man at Ottawa, a 
fire-breather even in the country's 
era of concord, had talked inflamingly 
of a contingent. 

The farmer, especially the western 
farmer, is the least nomadic man 
beneath the sun. Whatever a man 
may have been before, he becomes, 
when he puts his hand to the plow in 


all aspects a settler. Even the sailor, 
most chronic rover of all, forgets the 
sea and the white cities of his youthful 
far faring when he turns tiller of the 
soil ; the west is full of old salts turned 
hayseed and bond forever by their 
own choice and liking to the furrow 
and the wain. It is perhaps a con- 
sistent and natural ordinance that the 
farmer is your truest home-maker. 

The world of the boy born on a farm 
is hence circumscribed by the pastoral 
hills, the wheatfields and the hay- 
meadows; and the edge of his earth is 
rarely at utmost a half-day's pony-ride 
from his own roof-tree. Most farm- 
boys are satisfied, too, to let the "away" 
remain unexplored and unkenned 


even, except through the rude un- 
serviceable channel of hearsay. These 
marry and build their own homes al- 
most within hail of the parental door. 
They are deaf to all alien influences — 
all but one. 

That one is the Voice of War ! 

Dawney had a friend and side- 
kicker named Bob Halliday, with 
whom he had followed the various 
vocations that are the milestones of 
the farm-boy's life. Together they 
had gone to the Oakbum school 
(though perhaps not both with the 
same spirit; for Bob, instead of being 
a student like Dawney, was more 
interested in learning to smoke than 
in attaining proficiency in the three 

R's, and his satchel and shining morn- 
ing face followed his chum very grudg- 
ingly to the Oakburn academy) ; to- 
gether they had herded cattle and 
snared gophers on the summer hills; 
and synchronously reached the era of 
gee-haw and the stubble plow. 

Bob was just an average, e very-day 
boy, good-humored, freckled and blunt 
and now petting a little n^w-born 
flaxen mustache. He had no trait in 
common with the philosophic Dawney, 
but merely chummed with him be- 
cause the Halliday and Jenkins families 
were next neighbors. Dawney liked 
Bob for company because he was 
"used to him" and could bounce ideas 
Continued on page 197. 

Doing a Daniel 





By Porter Emerson Browne 

Illustrated by D. V. Dwiggins 

OVER in one corner of the little 
cafe a careless and cursory orches- 
tra was painfully maltreating 
the latest specimen of melodious 
prtit larceny that had found the fleeting 
favor of the public. "Estelle, My Prairie 
Belle," it was, and as its stereotyped 
strains filtered through the thick smoke 
of the room, the property man, seated 
across from me, gazed in sad, wan 
pensiveness into his beer and, with the 
final chord that signified that the 
orchestra had at last done its worst, he 
gave vent to a deep, deep sigh and mur- 
mured in abstracted pathos, "Estelle ! 
Estelle !" and then relapsed into 
another staring interval. 

I, wisely, forbore to interrupt him; 
and at length he came to himself, and 
to me. 

"Oh," he said, with a little start. "I 
guess I must have been thinking, wasn't 
I ?" 

I nodded. 

"You had all the symptoms," I 

"Ain't it funny," he began; then, in 
abrupt transition : ' 'That tune always 
sets me thinking of an Estelle I knowed 
once. And when I gets to thinking 
that way, I goes philandering off into 
the mazes of mem'ry until I don't 
know where I'm at *■ * * I never 
told you about Estelle, did I ?" 

I shook my head, and pretended 
only a perfunctory interest in the sad 
tale of blighted love that I felt sure 
was to come. Some people, you know, 
will tell you things only when they 
think you dpn't care much about hear- 
ing them and the property man was 
that kind. 

"Well," he said, at length, reminis- 
cently, "it was this way. In eighteen 
ninety-seven I was out with 'The 
Queen of the Harem' company. That 
was a great show. It was about a 
English girl who gets kidnapped by 
a Turk and put in his harem. She has 
a sweetheart, and he climbs over the 
wall in the second act to rescue her. 

"The guy that owns the harem 
catches him there, and he says to his 
slaves (coons they was that we would 
pick up in every town that we played), 
he says, 'Seize him !' and the coons 
grabs the leading man and ties him 
hand and foot while the leading lady 
looks on, weeping and wailing and 
wringing her hands and telling the 
coons out of the side of her face that 
was turned away from the audience 
to be careful not to walk on her train 
or she'd tell the manager and they'd 
lose their jobs. 

"In the next act, for revenge, the 
Turk guy puts the leading man into a 
lion's den and ties the leading woman 

with a log chain where she can get a 
good view while the lion eats up her 
lover. But just as the lion's about to 
make good, the leading woman busts 
her chain and runs into the den and 
charms the lion with her gaze long 
enough to untie the leading man. 
Then they both beat it while the lion's 
coming out of the Trilby that she has 
put him into — a hot situation, eh ?" 

I nodded. "Very," I agreed. 

"Well," went on the property man, 
"we is booked to open in Hoboken. 
The manager has bought a ex-circus 
lion for the big scene; and of course 
he is in my charge. 

"They come driving him over from 
New York in a cage which is loaded 
onto a truck. They makes almighty 
good time, too, for the horses can smell 
him (and I don't wonder !), and it 
stimulates them to such an extent 
that they tries seven times to get off 
the ferry boat between docks; and 
when finally they do get ashore, they 
yank the wheels off from three cabs 
and a mail wagon and come up to the ' 
theayter like they was pulling Steamer 
Ten to a general alarm fire. Tame 
animals is always afraid of wild ones 
that way. I knowed a leopard trainer 
to go out one evening without changing 
his clothes and hire a cab against the 
wind. And then, when the breeze 



changed so the horse could smell him — 
well, they was chunks of that cab all 
the way from Forty-second Street to 
the Battery, and then some. But that 
ain't got nothing to do with Estelle. 

"When they gets in front of the 
theatyer, they sends in for me and I 
go out, not unperturbed in mind, for 
it ain't no joke to go chaperoning a 
lion around the country. But when I 
get my lamps focussed on the pore 
animal who's laying back in one corner 
of his cage looking tired and discouraged 
and car-sick, I don't feel no other 
emotion but pity. 

"He sure ain't no beauty to look 
at. In the beast deck, he's more like 
a dooce than a king. He's got one 
bum eye and he's kind of moth-eaten, 
and faded around the edges, and his 
whiskers looks like they'd been trim- 
med by an Eyetalian barber who's in 
a hurry to get away to a street festival. 
He is certainly a pitiful-looking object. 

"We gets him stored in one corner 
of the stage and I goes out to buy him 
a slab of cow and some dog biscuit. 

"When I shoves this provender in 
through the the bars of his cage, he 
doesn't do what I naturally expects, 
come charging down onto it with his 
mouth full of growls and a wild light 
in his windows. Instead, he merely 
lays where he is, casting a peevish and 
disappointed gaze upon the sirloin and 
crackers. Then, when he sees that I 
am watching him, he bats his eye up 
at me, grateful and appreciative, and 
opens his mouth as apologetically as 
you please, and I see the reason for 
his peculiar conduct, which is that he 
ain't got a tooth in his head. His jaws 
is as bare of ornament as an unpaid-for 
cemetery site. So I exchanges the 
carnivora banquet for a couple of gal- 
lons of milk and half a dozen loaves 
of bread. 

"The lion takes this juvenile repast 
like he was a kitten, waggling his tail 
gentle as you please and purring like 
one of them rivetting machines they 
uses on skyscrapers. And every once 
in a while, he blinks up at me in grate- 
ful thanks. Then, when at last he's 



absorbed his feed, he comes over to 
the side of his cage and smiles at me 
his deep appreciation for what I have 
did for him and then goes over to the 
corner of the cage, turns around three 
or four times and lays down; and, 
resting his head between his paws, he 
goes off into a snooze that makes the 
drops quiver. 

"Byme-bye, about seven o'clock, the 
members of the company shows up. 
Of course the first thing they does is 
to beat it over to the lion's cage. And 
there they stands, sizing up his nobs, 
who is sleeping as peaceful as a hobo 
on a park bench who knows the cop 
on the beat is in a saloon. 

" 'Ain't she a beauty !' says the 
leading lady, whose knowledge of 
zoology seems to be somewhat sooper- 
ficial. 'What is her name ?' 

" 'I don't know,' I says. 'The guys 
that brought her over here calls her a 
lot of things; but none don't seem to be 
exactly what you might term a congo- 

" 'Then,' says the leading lady, 
excitedly, 'I shall name her after my- 
self, she shall be called Estelle; and 
I shall buy her a gold collar !' 

" 'A set of false teeth would be a 
fair more useful present,' I says. But 
I am interrupted by a chorus of 
enthusiastic but bashful ladifes, all of 
who thinks her own name is the best 
and wants to name the lion after her- 
self. I've always found that ladies 
are very careless students of natooral 

"They're having a row which would 
wake up anything but that lion when 
the manager comes in. He is kind of 
soft on the leading lady. So when she 
promulgates her decision to name the 
lion Estelle, he sees a chance to make 
himself solid without it costing him a 

cent ; so he merely grins and announces 
that hereafter the lion is named 
Estelle. And that settles it. He's 

"Now the big scene comes in the 
third act. Just before the curtain 
rings up, it's my job to take Estelle 
out of his cage and tie him to a moun- 
tain, stage left. 

"When they was signing the com- 
pany, they had seventeen property 
men refuse the job on account of the 
lion-taming specialty that went with 
it. But I had been doing the Dead 
March up and down Broadway all 
summer and just as that juncture I 
would have agreed to be valet de sham- 
ber to a whole African jungle if there 
was a chance to eat went with the job. 
So I signs. 

"You can make up your mind I'm 
on the point of giving up the job 
several or more times before the show 
gets going. But I decides to wait 
long enough at least to see what kind 
of a quadruped they stacks me up 

"Estelle's friendly attitood encour- 
ages me a lot; but still all my doubts 
ain't dispelled by a long way for, not- 
withstanding her grateful attentions 
after I feeds her, I'm not so sure that 
when I goes into the cage she won't 
suddenly remember that, even if her 
teeth are non compos mentis, her hooks 
are still good, and want to practice a 
little vivisection work on my shrinking 
form. Wild animals, you know, have 
a grace of bearing and a gentleness of 
manner when they are caged up alone 
that they sometimes forgets when in 
human society. 

"All through the first and second 
acts that night, my pedal extremities 
is getting more and more chilled ; and 
when the curtain finally rings down on 



the last scene of the second, they're 
so cold that I could have put 'em in a 
tub of hot alcohol and froze it solid. 
My knees wabbles like I has the ague 
and I keeps lapping my lips with my 
tongue and then wondering why I 
done it; for it's like wiping a gravel 
roof with a doormat. 

"I watches them Hoboken scene 
slammers putting up the mountain and 
has almost decided to beat it when the 
manager comes waltzing over to where 
I'm giving an imitation of the unfor- 
unate herowine freezing to death on 
the church steps at midnight in 'Turned 
Adrift; or, Out in the Cold, Cold, 

" 'Aw, what's the matter with you ?' 
says the manager, sourcastically. 
'Have you got locomotive ataxia, or 
are you only shaking yourself for the 
drinks ? Get Estelle out of his cage 
and hitch him to that ringbolt on the 
mountain. And get a move on. See ?' 

"I tries to answer; but the words 
get lost in the gravel in my elementary 
canal, and nothing comes out. 

" 'Do a Daniel,' 
says the manager. 
'Do a Daniel. 
What's the matter, 
anyhow? You ain't 
afraid, are you ? 
Why, he wouldn't 
bite a cream puff. 
But if you're scar- 
ed, I'll send home 
for my three-year- 
old niece to come 
and do it. , Hell ! 
Did I hire a man 
or a blooming old 
woman ? Huh ?' 

"Now no guy can stand being talked 
to like that. So I bristled myself up, 
shut my eyes and wabbled into the 
cage with my hair standing up like a 
German diplomat's. 

"But there wasn't no call at all to be 
afraid. Just like the manager said, 
Estelle was the height of compati- 
bility. A mustard plaster was cold 
and distant compared to him. And 
without no trouble at all, except that 
he jumps up on me and tries to kiss 
me, I takes him out and hitches him 
to the mountain. 

"The curtain goes up showing a 
panorama of burning sand embellished 
with potted palms and the mountain 
which Estelle is tied to. And in 
another minute, the coons comes on, 
dragging the leading man. 

"Of course, nobody but me and the 
manager has yet mixed up with Estelle 
socially, and for all the rest may know, 
he's the concentrated squintessence of 
unadulterated savagery. So you can 
bet them coons ties up the leading 
man like they'd worked all their lives 
at the bundle counter, and then ducks 
oiT the stage like the theay terjf was 


afire; which, of course, adds verisi- 
militood to the scene and don't en- 
courage the leading man none too 

"That guy last-named languishes 
about three foot beyond the reach of 
Estelle's chain in a harassed condition 
of mind that's pitiful to see; for, as 
I've said, .he ain't acquainted with 
Estelle none at all and he don't know 
what her homicidal tendencies may be. 

"Estelle, after gazing in disappointed 
and lonely surprise after the disappear- 
ing coons, sees the leading man and 
perks up quite some. He purrs a little 
and rubs himself sociably against the 
mountain and then starts to go across 
to where that hysterical guy is tethered. 

"The leading man forgets his bonds 
and gets ready to take a flying start 
for the wings. With his eyes bugged 
out so you could have knocked 'em 
off with a stick and his hair standing 
up all over his head like the needles 
on the peevish porcupine, as the feller 
says, he waits until Estelle is within 
eighteen inches of him. Then, so sud- 


den that in comparison to him a streak 
of lightning would appear slow and 
sedentary, he gives a yell and starts 
off for the wings in such a hurry that 
he knocks the leading woman, who's 
just coming on to rescue him, off into 
the bass drum, and disappears from 

"The curtain's rung down, and the 
manager goes out onto the apron of 
the stage and tells the audience, which 
is all trying to get out of the theayter 
at once, that there ain't no danger— 
that the savage brute has been sub- 
dued and put back into his cage and 
so on and so forth until there ain't 
nobody left in the house to talk to, 
and next afternoon we opens in Pater- 

"Knowing Estelle's social propensi- 
ties, we are somewhat doubtful next 
day when we raises the curtain on the 
third act. But, being as we've man- 
aged to give the leading man full and 
unqualified confidence in Estelle's paci- 
fic intentions and unbounded ami- 
ability, we're hoping for the best. 

"And so it was that when the coons 
had dragged the leading man on, and 

had departed like a bunch of two-year* 
olds in a steeplechase, leaving the lead* 
ing man to tie his own hands and feet, 
he done so unmoved. And when 
Estelle went sociably toward him, he 
didn't try to break no sprinting records, 
but just lay there, gritting his teeth 
and trying to appear dignified and 

"But would you believe it, before the 
leading woman had a chance to get on 
the stage and save the leading man, 
Estelle has laid down comfortably 
along-side that languishing guy and 
went to sleep I And all through that 
thrilling saving scene he don't wake up 
at all, but just lays there and snores 
so that when the herowine yells, 'Sweet- 
heart, you are safe at last !' you can't 
hear her at all. He don't wake up 
until after the curtain is down and the 
audience is yelling itself sick. And 
then I has to go out and prod him six 
or eight times with a scimiter before 
he'll come to. 

"Things continues to go wrong until 
we reaches Pittsubrg. But then we 
'\ finds out how' to 
■ handle the scene; 
and after that the 
show goes great. 
I The way we'd work 
1 it was to bore holes 
in the stage and 
guys would stand 
underneath with 
ong poles and prod 
Estelle whenever 
he'd try to lay down. 
And the leading la- 
dy, by working fast, 
could rescue her 
lover before Estelle 
had a chance to get sociable. 

"Then they'd give the quickest kind 
of curtain. 

"During the next six weeks I got to 
be very fond of Estelle, and he got to 
be very fond of me, too. You know 
how you'll grow to love a good, faith- 
ful, affectionate .dorg that's big, and 
slow, and poky, and that is perfectly 
and soopremely happy when he can 
put his head on your knee and have 
you rub his nose. 

"Well, that's just how it was with 
me and Estelle. 

"And we kept on getting more that 
way every day. In fact, byme-bye 
Estelle gets so attached to me that he 
just can't abide to have me leave him 
at all. He'll cry and mope and whine 
and beller every time I go away from 
him, and take on so he'll scare the 
whole community into fits; and after 
they had to send for me fifteen or 
twenty times to come down to the 
theayter at three o'clock in the mom- 
ning and comfort him, I decided the 
best thing to do was to sleep there. I 
saved a lot of money in lodgins by it, too. 
Continued on page 186. 

Rescuing Mary 


By Eleanor M. Sanderson 

Illustrated by P. C. Sheppard 

IT WAS in a Macedonian restaurant, 
first floor up, that we rescued 
Mary, and therfe were five of us 
in the rescue party. There was 
the Probation Officer, Irish and twinli- 
ling, with a very warm and sometimes 
stern interest in everyone's affairs; the 
Inspector, big and Scotch as the Ten 
Commandments, and personally ap- 
pointed to enforce them, with heart- 
l)reaks of sympathy at the back of his 
eyes because he had to; two modest 
plainclothes policemen, who always 
hacked out the door when the Proba- 
tion Officer discussed the things for 
which Marys were arrested or rescued, 
and the Scribe and Pharisee who went 
to get a "story" for the moral uplift of 
the community and felt as comfortable 
us a man arrested for tripping a cripple. 
The front entrance of the Mace- 
donian restaurant was at the back, and 
you were inside before you saw the 
entrance at all. Though the plain- 
clothes men went round another street 
to arrive earlier and avoid the appear- 
ance of a surprise party, all the boxes 
of porches on the lane which ran as a 
tributary from the dusty stream of 
King Street, were ornamented with a 
row of heads protruding in a line sug- 
gestive of guillotine victims. Heads 
with curl-papers, sleepy-eyed, black- 
moustached heads with queer-shaped 
pipes in their mouths, corn-colored 
heads with mud streaks down their 
small cheeks and skull-like heads with 
outlines softened by mud-colored 
shawls, all nodded and swayed and 
remarked on the fact that trouble had 
come to Peter and the English woman. 
Mary kept the garbage boxes under 
the foot of the stairs because they were 
less likely to be stepped in there in the 
dark, and there were no lights. They 
were quite full and in the four by six- 
foot space of rotting boards around 
them played two fat dumplings of girls, 
one of seven and the other five. They 
had English faces with red and white 
cheeks, and the seven-year-old told us 
that her name was "Vi'let," which 
matched her eyes. They were Mary's 
family. They stood back and watched 


ABOUT Mary's children ? 

with round eyes as the strange people 
climbed the narrow rough wood ladder 
that shot abruptly from the cubby-hole 
to the rooms above. 

"Come this way first, and see a 
Macedonian boardinghouse," invited 
one of the plainclothes men, walking 
cheerfully into a room full of smoke and 
unrighteous odors. The door, which 
had been partly closed, was swung wide 
open and in a bare-floored room 
around a bare table sat seven men and 
boys. It was four in the afternoon, 
and the sun took pleasure in pointing 
out scornfully all the dust, the broken 
teapot and the glasses filled with sugar- 
less, milkless tea, the rough, soiled 
clothing and collarless shirts of the men. 

their unshaven, seamed faces and 
blackened finger-nails, the rags of 
underclothing littered about or hanging 
from nails on the walls, the red iron of 
the rusted little stove and all the harsh 
discordances of uncared-for men in 
poverty. Four of them had been play- 
ing with a torn pack of cards stained 
with tea and tobacco, but they dropped 
their cards and stared at the visitors. 
The younger men twisted uneasily in 
their chairs and one grinned apologeti- 
cally because of some criticism he 
seemed to feel in the heavy air, or to 
glimpse in the strangers' eyes. 

"What's that you're drinking?" 
asked the officer. 

"Tea," responded an elder man, 
shoving the glass before him over to the 
edge of the table with a stubby hand, 
from which one finger was missing. 

"Huh! Maybe it is," was the reply, 
as the plainclothes man turned to go. 
"That's the way they live here. Is 
this a fit place for an English girl? 
Now, is it?" 

Without going into the front room, 
from which voices proclaimed the fact 
that the rescue of Mary was in process, 
the top flat was then explored. More 
rough wooden steps led as abruptly to 
it, and under these steps were piled the 
nine mattresses, on which slept each 
night as many of the black-eyed 
stranger-within-our-gates as could layer 
themselves between wall and wall. At 
night these mattresses were dragged 
from under the stairs and spread out in 
the hallways, the kitchen, and up on the 
bare spaces of the top story. Two 
rooms on the top, one with seven and 
the other with five camp beds in it, com- 
pleted the "restaurant." The officer 
waved an appealing hand around, 
repeating : 

"Now, IS it any place for an English 
girl? I ask you?" 

We stumped down the wooden stairs 
in the darkness and returned to Mary. 
The door of the room in which the men 
played cards was closed and the man 
with the maimed hand stood in front of 
it listening to the voices in the front 
room. Vi'let toiled up the stairs fol- 



lowed by her small sister. At the top 
the man patted her on the head and 
spoke in thick, foreign words until he 
noticed that the officer was frowning at 
him. He dropped his hand, started to 
grin uncomfortably, changed his mind 
and frowned, then turned and walked 
clumsily down the stairs and out to the 
street. Vi'let smoothed down her 
pretty blue dress, very new and one 
of the seventy-five cent ready-made 
children's garments turned from the 
factories until the pattern wears out. 
The baby's dress wqs just a smaller size 
of it and in green, but they were clean 
and toned with the pink and white 
little faces. They were part of the 
rescue story. 

A soft sound came from behind the 
door of the front room, and when 
Vi'let pushed it open we saw that it was 
Mary sobbing. Mary is twenty-three, 
with big brown eyes like a lost water- 
spaniel ; a red mouth making an inch- 
wide slit in a white face, and no chin to 
speak of. If she had been in a classic 
instead of a Macedonian restaurant, we 
could have said she was just as high as 
Peter's heart, but the Police Inspector 
stood between them, so we couldn't 
measure accurately. 

"How soon can you get packed?" 
the Inspector was asking. 

"Well, not before to-night," ven- 
tured Mary, picking Vi'let's stockings 
from one chair and aimlessly putting 
them on another. "The baby's asleep 
and I don't want to wake her." A 
slight mound in the white cover of a 
crib was the baby, just a year old. 


"See here!" said the Inspector, 
slowly and emphatically, "this lady 
(the Probation Officer) will wait for 
you, and you've got just an hour. 
There'll be a wagon come for you and 
your stuff then. We've got a nice room 
for you, and you can put your girls in 
the Creche in the daytime. They've 
got work for you and they've paid your 
room rent in advance." 

"They" meant a church institution. 

No enthusiasm was displayed by 
Mary, Peter or Vi'let, and the pink wee 
girl who had stolen in went over to play 
with the window curtain, draping it as 
a veil over her rosy face. 

"Will she keep her children by her?" 
dared Peter, from the background. 

Peter is a giant with a face like a 
Raphael cherub who had grown up, 
taken to the restaurant business, a 
Christy hat and a huge black mous- 
tache. He is child-like; doesn't want to 
hurt anything and is a Socialist. But 
Peter hadn't married Mary. He 
couldn't, because Mary is already mar- 
ried to a Briton person who ran away 
when the last baby appeared. Since 
then Mary has worked and kept herself 
and the babies in the straight and 
narrow path. Then some of the debris 
from the collapse of the 1914 business 
world blocked that path. 

Nothing Canadian needed her, but a 
Macedonian named Peter, with brown 
eyes much like her own, needed a wait- 
ress at four dollars a week with meals. 
Mary took it. That was the beginning. 
The middle was the room papered fresh 
with nursery paper showing little girls 

"what's that you're drinking ?" ASKED THE OFFICER. 


and boys rolling hoops and picking 
flowers ; a sewing machine, small white 
iron cots for the children; a black silk 
dress with a girdle for Mary; dresses 
for the children — and the end was the 
visit of the Inspector. 

Now Peter stood rubbing a big finger 
up and down on the window ledge, 
realizing that he was a felon — and 
worrying about Mary's children. 

"Don't you worry about the chil- 
dren," returned the Inspector, sternly. 
"We'll take care of them better than 
you ever could. This isn't any place 
for little girls like these to be growing 
up, with those foreigners loafing round 
here all day." 

"She can take the sewing machine," 
mildly replied Peter. 

"No, she can't!" thundered the 
officer. "She oan't take anything 
belonging to you. Except the trunk, 
that is," he added, realizing that Mary 
had moved from her last lodgings by 
means of a cotton sheet tied cornerwise. 

Mary, who had looked up, turned to 
her packing again with a child-like 
sniffle. Her hands groped clumsily, 
taking out things she had just put in, 
and streaking her hair back from her 
wet eyes. Four of us, as became right- 
eous law-abiders, watched her from the 
door. Suddenly she straightened her 
thin back and looked at us with eyes 
that said, "Can't some one of you 
understand?" but her voice said in a 
crumbly tone: 

" I'm so excited like that I can't seem 
to get things in right." Her lips com- 
menced to move in the direction of a 
shadow smile. 

" Excited !" snorted the law, who was 
much tried himself, "I should think 
you'd have been more excited over 
coming here than ever going. You 
should be glad to go. Aren't you 

Mary collapsed over the trunk like a 
small field flower when the stem is. 
broken. She crushed away the baby 
dresses and clothing in Peter's trunk 
in silence, punctuated with sobs. 

Excitement in the lane was intense. 
A wagon was waiting out on the street 
and its driver, being paid by the hour,, 
sat comfortably smoking on a water 
hydrant. The hasp of the trunk was 
at last snapped; the children's sailor 
tams put on, the baby rolled in a shawl 
and Mary lastly pinned on her own new 
black turban with a stick-up like the 
Crown Prince's Regiment. She looked 
back at Peter through the glass as she 
pinned it in shape. That was their 

The procession then filed down the 
stairs, the Probation Officer leading the 
way with Vi'let cheerfully clinging to 
her hand and a man with a trunk on his- 
back bringing up the rear. 

"Now, I want you to understand,"" 
Continued on page 188. 

■iDiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiniii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiii mill iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiniiiiiiiiii[;i('3t3liiiiii"iiiiin"M iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin itiiiumiiiiiiiiiiiiiHuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiii inniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiiiiiij 

I Folk-Songs of the Ukrainians | 



EUROPE in miniature is mirrored 
in certain districts of Winnipeg, 
but the average city dweller 
never goes Abroad; and there- 
by he misses a new and great interest 
in life. A social worker told me that 
he was getting the most liberal educa- 
tion in European history and manners 
that one could imagine, because he 
stood on the thresholds of doors that 
were at last unbarred to him. Many 
of his new acquaintances, however, 
would never when introduced give 
him their correct address — he was re- 
ferred to another, and sometimes even 
passed on to a third before it was con- 
sidered "safe" to let him know such a 
seemingly unimportant thing. But 
they knew what they knew. 

MWith thirty million Ruthenians 
phting for Russia and three million 
nder Austria's Eagles what can be 
the attitude of the 200,000 Ukrainians 
who are in Canada ? Brother is fight- 
ing against brother in the old land- — 
fighting for what ? Those men who 
have come to Canada are content. If 
there were hope for the re-establish- 
ment of the Ukraine in Austria and 
Russia they would fight and gladly 
for the land that once was theirs. 
There is a chance that Russia will give 
the Ukrainians something of the free- 
dom and autonomy she is promising 
the Poles — there is not much chance 


By Florence Randal 

Illustrated from Photographs 

of anything else. Austria's Ukrainians 
must die for a forlorn hope. 

As for the attitude of the women it 
is for the most part one of apathy and 
dull waiting for news of relatives. A 
Bukovinian girl said to me when she 
saw the Canadian soldiers going to the 
front: "Why do they go ? How 
stupid, when they don't have to !" 

But my Ukrainian servant was an 
enthusiastic Canadian. "Sure they 
should fight !" she made sturdy reply. 
"It's not all of us that have a good 
country like Canada to fight for; we 
earn good money here; we're free; 
when the war is over I think I'll send 
for the rest of us." 

This bright girl has a grandmother 
still living who is one hundred and 
three. "She is ready to die, yes, and 
wants to go. But sometimes she will 
brighten up wonderfully and tell of 
things that happened when she was a 
young married woman. The Polish 
land-owners then could do as they 
liked with the common people. Twelve 
days in the year a policeman would 
come to the door and say 'You must 
work to-day for your landlord. If 
you have children between eight and 
fifteen you must take them too. Pro- 
vide your own meals — and see that 
you don't shirk your work.' If they 
did, they got a taste of the overseer's 
whip. Not a cent was paid them for 
their labor; now they get seventy-five 
cents a day. My mother and father 
cannot read. Fifty years ago there 
were three churches in our village, but 
not a school. Then the young men 
went to other places and saw what it 
meant to read and they came back and 
made the priest give us schools. In 
Austria we have our own language; 



in the Russian Ukraine they would not 
let us have it," the girl explained. 

The picture of the Ukrainian girl 
illustrating this article is that of a very 
attractive and intelligent-looking 
young woman. She is dressed in. the 
erstwhile national costume. She may 
have come from Austrian Galicia or 
Bukovina, or from the Russian Ukraine 
but she is Ukrainian, if given her 
proper name. 

She has probably been acting in one 
of the plays put on by a Ruthenian 
Dramatic Society, and has taken from 
her chest the costume she used to wear. 
In certain districts in the North-west- 
ern part of Winnipeg one can see 
regular display boards of photographic 
studios in front of an occasional wooden 
house and these places, usually run 
by Ruthenians, assisted perhaps by a 
Jew, do a very good business. Thither 
almost every newly-wedded pair be- 
take themselves immediately after the 
ceremony and the photograph of the 
Polish bride in her white silk gown 
trimmed with "meert" — the myrtle 
garland — is framed in a glass cabinet 
fronting the street, for all the world to 

One cardinal rule must be observed 

by the would-be successful photog- 

raper, working in those districts. 

Every part of the subject's body must 

appear. Both feet must show, for 



instance, the supposition be- 
ing that if the foot is not in 
the photograph it either does 
not exist or is deformed. 

"The Ukrainians are the 
best soldiers of the Russian 
and Austrian empires. The 
household guards and guard 
regiments in Russia are al- 
most entirely recruited from 
the Ukraine." 

So says the pamphlet is- 
sued by the Ukraine Com- 
mittee of London, England, 
which sets forth facts that 
should be known concerning 
"the forgotten kingdom of 
Ukraine." For Canadians 
this brave people, with its 
heritage of tears and its 
struggle against oppression, 
should have especial interest 
at this juncture, when, like 
Poland, it is probable the 
submerged nation will secure 
many concessions from Rus- 
sia. Thirty million are fight- 
ing for that country, three 
million for Austria, and 
meantime, though brother is 
pitted against brother, the 
hopes of both centre in the 
beloved word "Ukraine." 

As their national anthem 

"Ukraine, Ukraine, thou livest still, 
Freedom, existence, liberty. 
All these, all these shall come with 
thee !" 

The Ukraine lies partly in 
Russian, partly in Austrian 
territory, from the Carpathi- 
ans to the Caucasus. In Russia 
it is officially called Malo- 
russia, or Little Russia; in 
Austria since the message of 
the aged Emperor in 1912, 
it is officially recognized as 
Ukraine. The Austrian Ukraine is 
partly in Galicia, partly in Bukovina, 
partly in Hungary. The word Ukraine 
has been used in the English language 
since the seventeenth century. For 
hundreds of years it was an independ- 
ent Kingdom, then a Republic. Its 
people speak a language as utterly 
different from the Russian as, say 
French from Portuguese, and not a 
dialect of the Russian, as alleged some- 
times; their life, habits, appearance 
are altogether personal, and exclusive 
of Russian ways, they being almost 
pure Slavs, while the Russians are 
Finno-Slavs, with no small amount of 
Mongol blood. The Ukrainian folk- 
lore is recognized as richer. 

We see these Ukrainians in Winni- 
peg daily, the bright handkerchief or 
veil of the women slowly but surely 
being replaced by the equally gaily- 
flowered straw hats of the depart- 
mental store. These women and girls 




On The Steppes 

Translated from the Ukrainian 

Florence Randal Livesay 

On the steppes two fir-trees old 
Their shrunken trunks uphold. 
And there stands a third between 
Splendid in its lowering green. 

A young Cossack lies sick on the road; 

A young Cossack lies low. 

Spent he lies, and he fears that Death 
Waits beside for his last-drawn breath. 

"O my brothers, pray you run 

To let my mother know 

To let my mother know ! 
Let her come where the frontier lies 

To bury the Cossack 

To bury the Cossack — " 

"0 son of mine" she wailing cries, 
"Lo, ever thus the sinner dies ! 
Thy stubborn heart that would not bend I 
Such is thine end, such is thine end !" 
" — And my grave, O Mother dear. 

With stones thou'lt heap it high. 
With stones thou'lt heap it high. 

"Plant at my head red cranberries 

Scarlet against the sky. 

Scarlet against the sky. 
Upon the branches hang 

A crimson flag aflame, 

A crimson flag aflame. 
To show how soldiers die; 

Ukraine shall know my fame, 

Ukraine shall know my fame !" 


we call "foreigners" — ^and let it go at 
that. Even yet a Westerner will care- 
lessly class them all as "Galatians," 
mixing Scripture and geography in 
frank disregard. Sometimes they 
come into our homes as char-women or 
servants. And then we may perhaps 
realize what a world is shut away from 
us every day of our lives by our own 
stupid narrowness. But what a chance 
it is whether our ears ever receive the 
"Ephatha" which gives us access to 
it ! 

The small amount I have learned 
about the foreign element in Winni- 
peg, their songs and outlook on life, 
came to me through a child's nursery 
jingle. I played "Ring-a-rosy" for 
my little girl's benefit, and Petronella, 
a Polish-German girl, cried out, "All 
the same German: 'Green is the 
grass, O little horses !' ". 

This is my version of her trans- 
lation: — -J ajE -ftatt^ 

"Green, green, green is the grass; 
O little horses, O little horses ! 
Frisking and stamping with each 

little lass — 
Green, green, green is the grass. 

Who is the nicest small girl here? 
Hoosli, Hoosh! Hofjsh, Hoosh ! 
Little girl, little girl, jump, jump, 

jump ! 
High as my heart, high as this — 
Little girl, little girl, give me a 

O little horses, O little horses !" 

By degrees, I put her 
singing-games into English 
verse, then, as she knew 
Polish, she gave me child- 
songs and story — dramas 
from that language and 
"Galish" as she called it, 
and one day she introduced 
me to Bukovinian Halka, 
who knew "lots songs not 
in de book." 

If others are as ignorant 
as I was about the "old 
country" where these people 
come from, it might be well 
to mention how easily one 
can get mixed up over just 
one name — Bukovina, for 
instance. In that duchy 
and crown land of Austria, 
bounded by Russia, Rou- 
mania, Hungarj^ and Gal- 
icia, inl900 its inhabitants 
were classified as follows: — 
forty per cent. Ruthenians, 
thirty-five per cent. Rou- 
manians, thirteen per cent. 
Jevs, and the remainder 
Germans, Poles, Hungarians, 
Russians and Armenians. 
Can you make a guess at 
the official language ? Well, 
it is German. 

M. Ivan Petrushevich, 
Dominion Government 
Commissi oner for the 
Ruthenians of Western Canada, who 
is well acquainted with "the most 
beautiful of all the Slav languages," 
very kindly told me something about 
Ruthenian songs and about the famed 
national poet lavas Shevchen to. "Each 
village has its own songs, which may 
be unknown to its neighbors" said he, 
"therefore you will realize that only 
about one-twentieth of tlie folk- 
literature is published, even in Ruth- 
enian. You may be quite safe in 
translating anything you like into Eng- 
lish verse ; it will be new to your readers, 
and possibly also to us. Mrs. E. L. 
Voynich, the well-known English 
writer, has translated some of Shev- 
chento's poems into English verse, 
but much of his finest work is not 
included in her collection. He put 
the folk-song into lyric form as Chopin 
adapted the melodies of the people,, 
both illuminating them with their own 

M. Petneshench himself is a folk- 
song collector, a man of wide literary 
attainments; but he smiled over his 
words when he said that it was not 
advisable to study or publish folk- 
lore in Austria or Russia. "One may 
have too much leisure to write poetry 
in a prison cell ! All songs must be 
submitted to the Censor and until we 
learnt wisdom we sent him our ori- 
ginals, which were promptly confis- 
ated. Now we keep copies, but we 
do not publish much, except in Galicia. 
The people make their own songs and 
they sing them to one another — caged 
or not, the birds must sing." 

They sing in Winnipeg, but they 
are apt to disdain their own melodies, 
to learn instead our pitiful rag-time. 
Halka, erstwhile of Bukovina, came 
to see me in a fawn suit of the latest 
cut, with ultra-fashionable hat which 
her clever fingers had fashioned out of 
a rough shape and some cheap flowers. 


She had been eight years in Winnipeg, 
and spoke very good English. 

"Sure, I'll tell you some songs," 
she said "if I don't get all muddled up. 
I don't know much except love songs, 
though, maybe you don't want those ?" 

Long afterward I drew from pretty 
Halka — who was a great belle — her 
own love-song, which she had com- 
posed and sung to the suitor who per- 
sisted in unwelcome attentions. Naive 
as it is, one can see in it the passion of 
the Ukrainian or Border-Caud dweller 
to translate emotion into verse and 
music; essentially a dramatic people 
they stage themselves unabashed, and 
make epics and sagas of life in a new 
country. This was her song, then, as 
her own life made her sing: 

"In a garden a big, red poppy grows — 
A fellow used to love me — he'd a very big nose; 
But I did not want him, and I told him so ! 
'My face' I said 'is white, white as the snow. 
Black as the soot seems your face to me — 
What then shall happen if these things be ? 


Dark is my hair, and my cheeks are white 
If I married you I would look a sight !' " 

Apparently this "plain-singing" had 
its effect, since the afflicted one be- 
sieged her no more. 

She told me that it was quite cus- 
tomary for Ruthenians in Canada to 
write their experiences in the new 
land in song form and get them pub- 
lished in Austria. Apparently these 
would not make good immigration 
literature. One poet sang of his first 
Easter Sunday in Winnipeg — of the 
bright city with its streets "fixed so 
nice;" of himself with no money and 
no food, sleeping in a ditch. "You 
see" she said in explanation, "when 
they first come they don't know the 
language and the ways and it makes 
them cranky." It's kind of worse at 
first, and they feel like writing about 

I wanted to tell her that we had a 
Continued on page 189. 


On the Waiting List 

By B. R. W. Deacon 

Illustrated by C. O. Longabaugh 

T the Old Brewery Mission, in 
Montreal, you may dine for a 
dime — five English pennies. It 
is not a sumptuous repast, but 
lling, forsooth. Or, if you happen 
lack the pennies, you may break- 
ist, lunch or dine at least once at the 
)ld Brewery without visiting the 
ishier's wicket. Incidentally you will 
be given a chance to earn the pennies 
|or your next meal. 

Half a dozen who had breakfasted 
Fere gathered in the waiting-room of 
le Old Brewery', on the day before 
^ew Years, presumably awaiting this 
lance. Three sat in moody silence 
jipon a bench along the wall. They 
dressed in shabby clothes of 
icient vintage. Little trifles in their 
ttire— the way the coarse scarfs were 
about their throats, the dilapi- 
lated blue caps, the faded jerseys — 
Ipoke of the sea. A tall man in very 
igged tweeds stood beside the win- 
dow and scowled at the large, feathery 
lowflakes which were tumbling softly 
oblivion in the mud and slush of 
le street. At the opposite side of the 
irindow, his feet perched high on the 
ron rail which protected the glass, 
It an anaemic-looking young man in 
faded blue serge suit, several sizes 
3o small. An exceedingly ferocious- 
Doking tattooed eagle on his wrist 


appeared to be volplaning toward his 
fingers, bearing the Stars and Stripes, 
also tattooed, in its beak. 

A long silence was broken by the 
tall man in tweeds. 

"Gor-blawsted country 1" he growl- 
ed, addressing the window-pane. 

"It sure ain't as good as Gawd's 
country, which is them U-nited States, 
but I guess it ain't so awful different, 
at that," commented the tattooed 

"Aw, shut yer 'ed 1" tersely sug- 
gested one of the trio on the bench. 

The tall man in tweeds made no 
comment. He continued to stare 
gloomily at the falling snow. 

The door leading from the office 
opened and a wiry little man with 
close-cropped, iron-grey hair popped 
into the room. His clothing was 
travel-stained and dilapidated — the 
kind of stain and dilapidation result- 
ant upon travel over the trucks of a 
freight car. 

" 'UUo, mates !" he called cheerily 
and impartially to the other occupants 
of the room. 

"Hello, frien'l" said the tattooed 

" 'UUo !" echoed one of the seafar- 
ing trio gruffly. A second merely 
grunted; the third remained silent. 
The tall man in tweeds continued to 
stare out of the window. 

The newcomer gazed about him 
with evident curiosity. 

"Fu'st time yuh was here ?" queried 
the tattooed man. 

"Yus," replied the wiry little man. 
"Great hinstitushun, I calls it !" 


"Get any eats ?" asked the tat- 
tooed man. 

"Henny heats ?" repeated the little 
man slowly and inquiringly, emphasiz- 
ing a couple of superfluous h's. 

"Eats ! breakfas'!" explained the 
tattooed man. 

"Breakfus'!" exclaimed the wiry 
little man enthusiastically. "Not 
'arlf ! Liver'n'bacon ! 'Ole 'caps of 
it ! An' corfee ! An' no bloomin' 
charge ! Great hinstitushun, I calls 

"Ugh !" protested the tall man 
through the window to the falling 
snow. "Liver'n'bacon ! Bloomin' fine ! 
There's precious little bacon, there is ! 
Liver ! Ugh ! Me wot used t' 'ave 
me beef an' me chops at 'ome !" 

The wiry little man looked as though 
he was quite prepared to argue in sup- 
port of the liver and bacon, but the 
tattooed man cut in — 

"Jus' come ovah, Bo ?" 

"Wot, me ?" said the little man. 
"I've been 'ere 'most two weeks, I 
'ave. Jus' come up from 'Alifax. It's 
a bit stiff 'angin' on to them there 
fr'ight cars. Got a bit chummy with 
one of th' brakesmen chaps hafter I 
lef Querbec, though, an' 'e let me sit 
in 'is car part of the w'y. ' 'Ere's a bit 
of luck right hoff at th' start, Jim,' I 
says ter meself. An' in Mon'real 'ere, 
a bloke 'e gives me a bloomin' tram 
ticket an' tells me to come hup 'ere. 
An' when I tol' 'em 'ere I was broke, 
w'y, they gives me me breakfus'- — 
liver'n'bacon, an' corfee — an' they're 
agoin' to get me a jorb. This Canader, 
hit ain't 'arlf bad, I says — not 
'arlf !" 

He dragged a chair out from the 
wall and, placing it before the window, 
joined the man in tweeds in his occupa- 
tion of watching the slowly-falling 

"Wot 'as me beat," he volunteered 
after a pause, "is this — where's hall 
th' snaow? When I furs' makes up 
my min' to come hout to Canader, I 
says — " 

The tall man in tweeds turned about 
at this point and the little man forgot 
to finish his recital. 

"Well, Lor!" he exclaimed. "I'll 
be blowed if it hain't ol' Bill Jipson ! 
'Oo'd hever think t' see yer 'ere, Bill ! 
Lemme shaike yer flipper," he con- 
cluded, shooting out his hand. 

The tall man put forth his "flipper" 
and shook hands without enthusiasm. 

"Well, of hall things !" repeated the 
little man. "'Oo'd hever 'ave thought 
it ? An' me thinkin' you was hout in 
Manitober !" 

"Naw, I hain't," stated the tall man 
briefly and conclusively. 

"Hain't mide yer bloomin' fort'ne 
in Canader then, 'ave yer ?" inquired 
the little man. 

" Blime ! Fort'ne !" growled the 


other. " Gor - blawsted country! I 
was a hidgit to come hout 'ere. Yer a 
hidgit too ! You wouldn't 'ave to 
'ang on to fr'ight trines over 'ome, 
would jer ?" 

A young man stuck his head out of 
the office door. 

"Two men to clean sidewalks," he 

The trio on the bench looked from 
one to another for a minute. None 
spoke, but some sort of telepathic bal- 
loting seemed to be in progress. Two 
arose and shuffled into the office. • 

"See yer t'night," said one over his 
shoulder as he disappeared. 

"Awrigh'," muttered the one who 

The wiry little man watched the 
proceeding with very evident interest. 

"They've got jorbs," he commented. 
"Got jorbs a'ready !" 

"Aw, cleanin' sidewalks," said the 
tall man disgustedly. "Them sailors 
'11 do henny think." 

"An, Sammy Biggs," said the little 
man reflectively after a short pause, 
"Hever see Sammy Biggs out 'ere ? 
'E come out pretty near five year ago. 
They s'y 'e's mide 'is fort'ne 'ere." 

"An' well 'e might !" declared the 
tall man with much disgust. "Savin' 
an' scrimpin' th' w'y 'e done ! Wash- 
in' dishes, 'e was at furs' — washin' 
dirty dishes in a little tuppenny-'ap- 
penny cafey. 'E didn't care wot 'e 
did. Biggs didn't ! 'E was halways 
asavin' up 'is money. An' then 'e 
bought th' plice; then 'e bought 
another plice, larger. .An' now 'e's so 
bloomin proud 'e won't speak to no 
one, 'e won't. I hain't good enough 
fer 'im, I hain't ! W'y I remembers 
when 'e was jus' washing' dishes. 'E 
was a decent hartisan over 'ome, an' 
'im washin' dishes !" 

" 'Ow is it yer in 'ere. Bill ?" asked 
the little man soUcitously. "Hain't 
yer got no jorb ?" 

" 'Ow can I 'ave a jorb when hevery- 
one is down on me ?" responded the 
other querulously. I'm a mechanic, I 
ham I I hain't no bloomin' dish- 
washer !" 

"Gee ! I wisht I had some reg'lar 
trade," remarked the tattooed man. 
"I'd dig out after some steady job, 
an' buy me some glad rags." 

"Rags ?" puzzled the little man. 

"Sure ! Some rags — swell clothes," 
explained the tattooed man. 

" 'Ow can a man get a jorb at 'is 
tride when heveryone's down on 'im ?" 
continued the tall man. "I'm a good 
hartisan, I ham, an' I hain't agoin' to 
work fer nuthin'. They won't give 
me no good jorb, they won't — ^jus' 
because I'm Hinglish." 

"Man to beat carpets," shouted the 
young man from the office, appearing 

"Carpets 1" said the tattooed man 

with the air of a connoisseur of jobs. 
"Nix on th' carpets fer mine !" 

" 'Ere !" exclaimed the man on the 
bench. He jumped up and followed 
the young man into the office. 

"An' ol' Peter Simmons," mused 
the little man. " 'E sent hover far 
'is missus two year ago. You remem- 
ber Simmons, 'im as used to tell all 
th' funny tiles at th' pub ? Hever 
'ear of 'im out 'ere ?" 

"Hever 'ear of Simmons ! W'y me 
an' 'im lived 'ere together before 'is 
missus come. We was great pals 
once," stated the tall man. '"E's got 
no shine, 'as Simmons. W'y 'e was 
laborin' on th' r'ilroad with a lot of 
bloomin' Hitalians after 'e lef 'ere. 
'E couldn't get no jorb at 'is tride in 
this blawsted country, so wot does 'e 
do ? 'E goes has a laborer on a 
r'ilroad, 'im as 'ad a good tride !" 

"Workin' on th' r'ilroad now ?" 
asked the little man. 

"Not 'arlf, 'e hain't !" declared the tall 
man. "Some blokes 'as all th' luck," 
he continued thoughtfully. "Started 
farmin' out west, 'e did. Howns a big 
farm out in Manitober now." 

"Window-washing job," announced 
the man from the office. "One man 
wanted to wash windows." 

"Me fer th' windys," said the tat- 
tooed man. He disappeared into the 

"Washin' bloomin' windows !" mut- 
tered the tall man. "Gor-blawsted 
country !" 

"I cawn't hunderstan' some of 
these 'ere hupstarts," he volunteered 
after a lengthy pause. "There was 
Joe Smith. Came hover on th' sime 
boat, we did. 'E was so bad hoff 'e 
started hover 'ere amixin' mortar. 
An' a bit since I met 'im drivin' 'is 
hown motor. 'E wouldn't lend me a 
cent — not a bloomin' red ! 'W'y don't 
you go to work ?' 'e says to me. ' 'Ow 
can hennybody go to work,' I asks, 
'when heverybody's down on 'im ?" 

"Lady wants a man to beat rugs," 
came the announcement from the 
office door. 

The little man watched his tall 
companion for a moment. 
>®"I s'pose it's your turn," he sug- 

"Rugs !" exclaimed the tall man 
wrathfully. "Beatin' rugs ! I'm a 
decent hartisan, I am — " 

'"Ere," said the little man, and he 
started for the office. 

The tall man watched him dis- 
appear. "Hidgit 1" he muttered. 

He gazed sorrowfully out of the 
window for a few moments at the pro- 
cession of hurrj'ing, happy New Years 
shoppers; then silently he moved to- 
ward the door. 

"Gor-blawsted country !" he con- 
fided to the falling snow as he slipped 
out into the street. 




The Mystery of the Jade Earring 

By Henry Kitchell Webster 

Author oj "The Butterfly." "The 
Whispering Man." etc. 

Illustrated by Percy Edward Anderson 


Jeffrey, a successful artist, undertakes to paint for the "queer, rich, invisible Miss Meredith" a portrait of her dead niece taken from a 
photograph. For some strange reason, the commission gets on his nerves, and he goes abroad suddenly, without ever having seen Miss 
Meredith, but only her confidential agent and physician. Dr. Crow. 

The story opens at the point where he returns to find his friend Drew (who tells the tale) at home with Madeline and Gwendolyn, 
discussing a mysterious murder. Oddly enough, the murdered girl — a singularly beautiful woman with masses of fair hair — was found 
frozen in solid ice, clad in a ball-gown which had been put on her after she was shot through the heart. Next morning Jeffrey telephones for 
Drew, and when he hastens anxiously to the studio, says the portrait has been stolen. By a bit of amateur detective work, they find the 
man who stole the frame and he confesses, but swears that he never touched the painting. On their return to the studio, Jeffrey learns that 
Togo, his valet, had removed the picture from the frame, but they cannot find it. Jeffrey relates some of his uncanny experiences in his 
Paris studio, one of which was seeing a light in his window, and on going in quietly to surprise the intruder, hears a door shut and finds a 
candle still warm but — a vacant room. Jeffrey goes to Etaples to get rid of the cobwebs and regain his nerve. Returning he finds in his studio 
an unfinished portrait of a beautiful girl, with the paint still wet, and giving evidence that the artist had painted her own likeness from a mirror. 
Next morning the portrait had disappeared. He decided to leave Paris, and on the night before his departure was standing on a bridge when he 
noticed a womran leaning against the rail. The hood about her head fell and — it was the girl of the portrait! Two years later he received 
the Meredith commission. On opening the photograph he finds the face of the ghost girl of his Paris studio. Dr. Crow is announced, presumabl^y 
coming for the stolen portrait. Drew sees Crow in Jeffrey's place, and sensing an unasked question in Crow's assertion that in the portrait 
Jeffrey has succeeded in getting beneath the surface and has presented the living reaHty more vividly than the photograph, tells him suddenly 
that Jeffrey had a studio in Paris — a year after Clare Meredith died. Was it the light, or was Dr. Crow actually paler ? 

CHAPTER v.— Continued. 

"I'm afraid tiie unconscious memory 
theory won't work," said I. "That's 
a pity, too, because I suppose it would 
have been a comfort to Miss Meredith." 

He turned on his smile again, rose, 
buttoned his overcoat, and shook hands 
with me. "I'm just as much obliged 
to you, anyway. And we'll fall back 
on your theory ; that the ways of genius 
are past finding out. What if he did 
paint a portrait of a face he'd never 
seen, and improve on the only record 
of it we've given him ? After all, that's 
no more mysterious than writing 'Ham- 
let.' " 

"Do you suppose Shakespeare be- 
lieved in ghosts ?" I asked. 

He looked at me steadily for a mo- 
ment, in thoughtful silence. "Every- 
body believes in ghosts," he said. 
"Everybody !" 

He stood near the door, his walking- 
stick tucked under his arm while he 
drew on his gloves. But when he had 
finished and had laid his hand on the 
knob, he stopped short as if he had just 
remembered something. 

"There's something else Miss Mere- 
dith wanted me to ask about," he said. 
"I nearly forgot it." 

"Yes ?" said I inquiringly. 

"I wonder if I mayn't have a look 
at the portrait ? I can explain what I 
mean better that way." 


"I'm afraid not," I told him. ;i 
don't know where it is. Jeffrey said 
something about some trouble he had 
had with the frame. I don't know 
whether the canvas is in the studio or 
not; but T don't like to rummage." 

"Of course not," he assented cordi- 
ally. "It's a very trifling matter, really. 
The pose of the face shows one 
ear, and that is in deep shadow. But 
in the portrait, just below the ear, there 
is a streak of bluish-green light. Miss 
Meredith couldn't account for it, and 
she has been wondering about it ever 
since. It looks as if it were meant for 
an earring — a jade earring, perhaps. 
But there was nothing like that in the 

"Of course," said I, "nobody could 
answer a question like that except Jef- 
frey himself. But I doubt if there's 
any mystery about it. He probably 
put it there on the spur of the moment 
because it helped his harmony or his 
composition, or some other of the tricks 
of his trade. But I'll ask him, if you 
like. He has your address, of course. 
He can drop you a line when he comes 
in and tell you all about it." 

The doctor began unbuttoning his 
coat and fumbling with his gloved hand 
in one of his inner pockets. "I wish 
you would ask him," he said. "But 
when it comes to letting me know, I 
wish you'd take charge of that your- 

self. I never knew a genius who was a 
reliable letter- writer." 

He had got out his pocketbook by 
now, and was fishing for a card. Pres- 
ently he got one and held it out to me. 

"Is it too much to ask ?" he con- 
cluded. "Just a line telling what Jef- 
frey says about his reason for putting 
that little green streak into that shadow 
on his canvas. There's my address. If 
you undertake it for me I shall be sure 
of hearing." 

"I'll be very glad to," said I. 

"Good-by, then; and thank you." 
The next moment he was gone. 

I stood in my tracks, staring at the 
door he had closed behind him. I 
hoped Jeffrey wouldn't come in for a 
while. There was so much to think 
about, and I wanted my thoughts in 
order before I tried to tell them to him. 

After a while my eyes fell to the 
rug where Dr. Crow had stood while 
he was fishing for the card with his 
address upon it. They caught the 
shine of something, half buried in the 
deep nap of the rug. My hands were 
trembling when I stooped to pick it up. 
It was a long, pendant earring of pol- 
ished jade ! 



But even as I stood there, staring 
dully at the thing that lay in the palm 

of my hand, and glowed dully back at 
at me, with the impenetrable look of 
mystery jade always has, the door 
from the reception-room opened from 
behind me. I put the hand with the 
irring in my trouser-pocket, turned, 
iind faced Jeffrey. 

"Did you meet Crow ?" I asked. 
I'He's just this minute gone." 

He shook his head. "I heard you 
liking in here as I came by the door, 
BO I waited. He made you quite a visit. 
^Had he anything to say ?" 

"Oh, he wanted to see the portrait," 
said I. "He said Miss Meredith was 
waiting for it with a mixture of anxiety 
and dread." 

"She'll probably have it in a few 
days," said Jeffrey. "Richards seems 
to have no doubt about recovering it. 
He thinks he knows where it is." 

"Where does he think it is ?" I 

Jeffrey shook his head. "He didn't 
tell me. He asked me a few questions 
and jumped to a theory of his own. I 
couldn't follow him. It's the first time 
anything like that ever happened to 
me. To be outguessed by a policeman! 
I'm losing my wits, I suppose. Of 
course, I didn't ask him." 

He walked moodily across to his 
Morris-chair and dropped into it with 
an air of utter lassitude and fatigue. 

I hated to begin asking him ques- 
tions. Poor Jeffrey ! If the inextri- 
cable tangle of coincidence, in which 
we were involved already, terrified and 
bewildered him, what would his condi- 
tion be when he heard the rest — when 
I told him the whole story of my con- 
versation with Dr. Crow, and when I 
showed him the thing I had just put 
in my pocket ? The thing had to be 
done, however. 

"Jeffrey," said I, "Miss Meredith 
and the doctor were terribly puzzled by 
that portrait." 

"Puzzled ?" 

I nodded. "Jeffrey, it's more like 
the original than the photograph was." 

I expected his eyes to widen at that, 
and his body to grow tense. Instead, 
he answered indifferently enough: 

"What of it ? It ought to be more 

"You mean, I suppose, that any real- 
ly great artist sees beneath the surface 
of things — depicts an inner truth 
that — " 

"Inner truth be blowed !" interrupt- 
ed Jeffrey. "It's surfaces I'm talking 
about. A photograph of anything but 
a flat object is never by any possibility 
" correct. You can photograph an etch- 
ing or the page out of a book, or a set 
of working-drawings, with absolute 
accuracy, but never anything in the 
round. There is only one plane in a 
photograph that is in true focus. Every- 
thing that comes nearer than that plane 
is too big. Everything behind that 


plane is too small. Any competent 
draftsman can correct a photograph, 
and any competent portrait-painter 
can paint from a photograph a portrait 
that is more like than the photograph 

His manner nettled me a little; all 
the more because it was so rare with 
him. Of course, he had some excuse 
for being irritable to-day, and I might 
have remembered that any sort of cul- 
ture;ie talk about Art, with a big A, al- 
ways made him impatient. But he had 
made it easier than I had expected, to 
speak about the earring. 

"All right," said I. "We'll let the 
inner truth be blowed as far as you like 
and get down to facts. Did you do 
anything beside correcting the drawing 
in the photograph ?" 

"Beside ?" 

"Did you paint anything in it that 


wasn't there ? Did you make up any- 
thing and slap it in, just to make the 
picture look better — or harmonize — or 
compose better — or, well, for any other 
reason, Jeffrey ?" 

He was looking at me keenly enough 

"What do you mean ?" he asked. 
"What are you talking about ?" 

"Dr. Crow," said I, "expressed 
some curiosity about a light-bluish 
green streak in the shadow under the 
ear. He wondered if it had been meant 
to represent an earring — say a jade ear- 
ring !" 

Jeffrey straightened up now, and his 
eyes were blazing. "Did he ask that 
question himself ? Just that way ?" 
he demanded. 

"Just that way, Jeffrey." His ex- 
citement had infected me now, and my 
question asked itself jerkily. "Jef- 



frey, was there a jade earring in the 
other portrait — 'the one you found in 
your studio when you came back from 
Etaples ?" 

He didn't answer for a full minute. 
And all the while his unseeing eyes 
never left my face. All the power of 
his mind was concentrated in the strug- 
gle to reproduce and pfcrfect a memory. 

"No," he said at last. "It wasn't in 
the portrait. But I can tell you where 
it was, Drew. It was in the ear of the 
girl who stood beside me on the bridge 
that night at Paris." 

"What did it look like ?" I asked 

Once more he took his time about 
answering. His eyelids narrowed to 
slits, and the contracted pupils were no 
bigger than pin-points. 

"There was a tiny ring which pierced 
the lobe of the ear," he said, "and 
below that, a small perfect sphere of 
jade; below that was a long, rounded, 
tapering pendant. It's as clear to me 
as if I had it in my hand." 

"Like this ?" I asked, and I took my 
hand out of my pocket. There in my 
palm lay the thing he had described. 

The moment I uncovered it I re- 
gretted having sprung this last mine in 
so theatrical a fashion. Had I not 
been as excited as he I shouldn't have 
done it. Because I really feared that 
the shock of this last- — could I call it a 
coincidence ? — might do him a serious 
injury. My own brain was reeling 
with the weird, incredible extravagance 
of it, and to me the whole thing came 
at second-hand. What would it be to 
him who had felt the unknown, undis- 
coverable presence in his Paris studio; 
who had found the portrait painted 
there; who had seen the photograph 
of the same face, and had learned that 
it was the face of a girl who was dead a 
whole year before that ghostly portrait 
had been painted ? 

I stood there for a minute, not daring 
to look at him, fearing that there might 
break any moment on my ears a burst 
of maniacal laughter. But, utterly to 
my astonishment, what I did hear was 
a long, deep breath of the*most intense 

"Thank the Lord 1" said Jeffrey. 

He took the earring from my hand, 
carried it over to the light, and sub- 
jected it to a minute, careful scrutiny. 
I noticed that he was rubbing a finger 
over its smooth, cool surface as if the 
actual material feeling ,of it were an 
intense satisfaction to him. Then he 
tucked it into his pocket, pulled himself 
up on a high painting-stool, and hooked 
his heels into the rungs. He was a new 
man again. Rather, he was the old 
man — the man he had been before he 
went to Paris and had never been 

He gave his head a rueful shake. 
"I've had a scare. Drew. The worst 


I ever had in my life. I didn't even 
dare tell you how bad it was. That 
will have to be my apology for the way 
I treated you this morning. Now that 
it's over, I'll try to make amends. 
Let's go to lunch. Richards won't be 
here for an hour or two." 

Then, for the first time, he seemed 
to notice the astonishment that had 
held me speechless, but that I am sure 
must have shown in my face. 

"What's the matter with you ?" he 
asked. "Don't you understand ?" 

"I can understand the scare all right,' ' 
said I. "But why you should say it 
is over now, is beyond me. I was al- 
most afraid to show you that earring. 
I was afraid it might — finish you. It 
pretty near finished me." 

He smiled at me — his old amused, 
irrepressible smile. 

"Man," said I, "the girl was dead, 
and you saw her. One might have 
explained the portrait, but it wasn't in 
the portrait that you saw the earring. 
It was in the ear of the girl herself. 
And she was dead. And yet you de- 
scribed the earring in the most minute 

"Oh, come along to lunch." said 
Jeffrey. "I'm hungry as a hod-carrier 
when they blow the whistle. I'll tell 
you all about it across the corner of a 
square meal." 

And no persuasion of mine could get 
another word out of him until we were 
fairly seated in a near-by restaurant 
and had sent away the waiter with an 
order that did ample justice to Jeffrey's 
boast about his appetite. 

"By the way," said Jeffrey, "you 
haven't told me where you got that 
earring ?" 

"No," said I, rather sulkily. "As 
long as you have solved the mystery so 
easily without that information, I don't 
see why you should want it." 

Jeffrey smiled again and reached 
over and patted me on the arm. 

There is some sort of magic in Jef- 
frey's touch. In this case it wiped 
away my resentment as a sponge wipes 
the writing off a slate. 
"Crow left it," said I. 
"Left it ! Crow ?" 
"Oh, quite involuntarily. He had 
his gloves on and he was fishing in his 
card-case for a card with his address 
on it." 

"I had his address," said Jeffrey. 
"His confidence in you as a letter- 
writer is very limited," said I, "and he 
said he really wanted an explanation of 
that green streak in the shadow under 
the ear. He relied on me to get it for 
him. The earring must have been in 
his card-case, and when he fished out 
his card he dropped it. That's a very 
soft, thick rug, and it didn't make any 

"Crow," said Jeffrey thoughtfully. 
"Crow. I wonder if he will turn out 

to be the beginning ? I wonder if the 
first step in our mystery lies his way ?"• 

"The first step !" I cried. "Then 
you haven't solved it." 

"Solved it ?" cried Jeffrey. "I 
haven't tried to solve it — haven't begun 
to solve it." 

"But," I protested, "up there in the 
stuido you said you had had a bad 
scare, but it was over." 

"Yes," said Jeffrey. "The scare 
was over and the mystery begun. 
Can't you see what a relief it is to know 
that it is a mystery ? What do you 
suppose it was that I was afraid of ? 
That I had seen a ghost ?" 

"Why, something like that," said I. 

"I am perfectly willing to see a 
ghost," said Jeffrey, "if I can be con- 
vinced that it is a ghost — an outside 
ghosts-somebody else's ghost as well , 
as mine. The thing that terrified me 
was that I couldn't prove, even to my- 
self, that it was anything more than a 
kink in my own mind — a bunch of hal- 
lucinations and obsessions of my own 
producing — the sort of things that 
make the alienists rich. 

"But now I know that what I saw 
on the bridge that night in Paris was 
either a live woman or an honest 
ghost. I'm going to find out which it 
was. Whichever it was, that earring 
Crow was so curious about lets me 
out. No two people ever have exactly 
the same mania, and he is evidently as 
curious about the thing that wore the 
earring as I am." 

"He or Miss Meredith," said I. 

"Yes, he or the mysterious Miss 
Meredith," Jeffrey assented. "For the 
present, we'll consider them one person, 
and that one person Dr. Crow. Now 
let us try to figure out Crow's position. 
This is going to be logic, which is your 
department, so you will have to cor- 
rect me if I go wrong." 

"Crow gets me to paint a portrait. 
We don't know why he came to me. I 
didn't want to paint it, and he insisted. 
The question is, had he any reason for 
insisting, beyond the fact that his client 
was rich, and that I was fashionable ? 
W^e have no means of answering that 
question yet. I didn't tell him where 
my studio was the last time I spent a 
winter in Paris, but he might have 
found it out from some one ?lse." 

"And if he knew," I cried, "he 
might have thought that in that par- 
ticular place you might see something ! 
He might have wanted to try the ex- 

"Exactly," said Jeffrey. "But we 
can't build upon that yet. That's got 
to stay in the question-column. Any- 
how, I paint the portrait, and the por- 
trait shows some data which were not 
contained in the photograph he gave 

He looked up at me thoughtfully. 
"What did he begin on ?" he asked. 



"Did he begin with the earring ?" 

"No," said I. "He began by trying 
to find out if you couldn't have met the 
girl — if you hadn't been in Paris dur- 
ing the time she was there." 

"During the time she lived there," 
Jeffrey corrected. 

I nodded. 

"You satisfied him that that was 
impossible ?" he asked. 

"Completely," said I. "It was as 
perfect an alibi as you ever saw." 

"And then ?" Jeffrey went on. 

"He asked," said I, "if you hadn't 
been to Paris two years ago." 

"After the girl had died," he com- 

"I pointed that out to him," said I. 

"But, still, I thought he held his 
breath while he waited for my answer." 

"So, that he evidently thought it 

possible," said Jeffrey, "that I might 

have seen her after she was — dead. I 

wonder if Dr. Crow believes in ghosts ?' 

, "He said he did," said I. 

I "What ?" 

^ "He said that everybody did. That 
would include him, I suppose." 

"Your logic is flawless," said Jef- 
frey. "But how did he come to make 
that observation ?" 

"It was quite casual," said I. "I 
happened to say I wondered if Shake- 
speare believed in them." 

"Casually ?" 

"Oh, yes. He said something about 
'Hamlet' that put it in my head. I 
suppose the subject never was very far 

"I wish I had seen him," said Jeffrey. 

"Why do you make so important a 
matter of it ?" I asked. 

Jeffrey looked at me with a rueful 
little frown that had half a smile in it. 

"Because, my dear Drew," said he, 
"if Dr. Crow doesn't believe in ghosts, 
then he has got some reason for doubt- 
ing that Claire Meredith is really dead. 
He suspects I saw something. If he 
is perfectly sure it couldn't have been 
a ghost I saw, then he must know that 
it is possible that what I saw was the 
living woman." 

There was a moment's silence. Then 
Jeffrey brought his hand down sud- 
denly, but softly, on the table. 

"And then the earrings," he whis- 
pered. "Crow has the earrings — or 
he had till he dropped one of them this 
morning. If it wasn't a ghost I saw on 
the bridge, she had the earrings then. 
If Crow doesn't believe in ghosts, then 
he has seen the living woman since I 

"How do you make that out ?" I 

"Why, you idiot," he cried, "how 
else did he get them from her ? He 
has them now; she had them then, un- 
less she was dead then and buried and 
it was a ghost that I saw. We'd have 
taken a long step in our mystery if we 

could be sure whether Dr. Crow be- 
lieved in ghosts or not." 



I WENT back with Jeffrey to the 
studio after lunch, although I was 
uneasily conscious that my ofiice-chair 
was yawning for me. Jeffrey's affairs 
are always so much more interesting 
than my own that there isn't as much 
generosity and self-sacrifice as he 
credits me with in my ready devotion. 
We found Richards, the police lieu- 
tenant, waiting for us. 

"I'm sorry to have kept you," said 
Jeffrey, "but I found I needed a square 

"Oh, I didn't mind waiting," Rich- 
ards assured him. "But you missed a 

"A caller ?" said Jeffrey. 
He and I exchanged a glance. 
"Crow ?" I whispered under my breath. 
"He didn't leave his name," said 
Richards. "He's the rug-man." 

"Oh," said Jeffrey, indifferently. 
"Did he wait long ?" 

"No," .said the lieutenant. "He ex- 
amined the rug rather carefully and 
said he'd let you know about it in the 

"Which rug was it ?" I asked. 
"The one over there by the door. 
That was the right one, wasn't it ?" 

The lietutenant asked the last ques- 
tion of Jeffrev. 

"Oh, yes,"' said Jeffrey. "He knew 

which one it was, right enough. Do 

you remember what he looked like ?" 

"Why," said the lieutenant, "he was 

a pretty tall, good-looking, dark — " 

"Oh, you needn't describe him," Jef- 
frey interrupted. "Just remember 
him. You may meet him again." 

The lieutenant laughed. "What ? 
Is he one of your — what do you call 
them — latent criminals ?" 

"I don't know," said Jeffrey. "But 
it will do you no harm to remember 
what he looked like." 

We ensconced Richards in the large 
chair and provided him with a big 

Jeffrey went over to his paint-table 
and began an elaborate pretense of 
setting it to rights. 

"Well," he asked, "any luck with 
my little affair ? Are you going to be 
able to get that portrait back for me ?" 
The lieutenant unctuously licked the 
wrapper of his cigar and favored it 
with the caressing gaze of a connois- 
seur before he answered. He was in 
very good humor with himself. 
"I have got it," he said. 
"Already ?" I cried. 
"The lieutenant had the right guess 
this morning," said Jeffrey. "I sus- 
pected as much." 

"But you couldn't figure out what 
the guess was," said Richards. 

Then he turned to me. "I don't 
mind admitting, Mr. Drew, that this 
young fellow has pulled some long 
shots in the crime-detecting business 
that the front office has never been able 
to understand. You saw one of them 
yourself, and they tell me you wrote a 
book about it. But when it comes 
right down to cases, an old professional 
thief-catcher like me has got a few 
tricks of his own. Mr. Jeffrey here 
might have worked his game, what- 
ever it is — I don't pretend to under- 
stand it — for five years and he wouldn't 
have found it. But he came to me 
and I put my hand on it in fifteen 

"Oh, you will see for yourself," he 
went on, for both of us showed the 
surprise we felt at his announcement. 
"They'll bring it up in the wagon. It'll 
be here any time now. But the next 
time, Mr. Drew, that you write a de- 
tective story, you might give the police 
a little credit. 

"It was near eleven o'clock when 
Mr. Jeffrey made his complaint." He 
pulled out a, big gold watch in a hunt- 
ing-case and looked at it impressively. 
"His picture'll be back here before 
two. That's three hours. Mr. Jeffrey 
never worked any quicker than that 
himself. And, as I told you, he 
wouldn't have got it back himself in. 
five years." 

"Oh, come," said Jeffrey, "there 
aren't as many fences as that in town. 
I shouldn't have known the right one 
to go to first, but I know something 
about them. Besides. I could probably 
have advertised a reward and got it 

"You could have advertised," said 
the lieutenant, "until you were black 
in the face, and you could have gone 
to every fence in New York City, if 
you knew where they were, which you 
don't, and at that you would never 
have found it." 

"All right," said Jeffrey. "You've 
got me. I'd like to know how you 
did it." 

"Well," said Richards, "you've made 
me ask that question a good many 
times, and turn about is fair play. This 
is the way I figured it out: To begin 
with, pictures don't get stolen. Frames 
do sometimes, and if there's a picture 
in the frame, it may go along too. But 
this picture wasn't in a frame." 

"It seems to me," said Jeffrey, "I 
remember hearing about a picture 
called 'The Mona Lisa," in Paris, that 
was stolen. And then there was that 
Gainsborough that Pinkerton got 

"Oh, sure, that kind of pictures," 
said the lieutenant impatiently. "Pic- 
tures out of galleries. What I mean 
is the kind of pictures you paint." 

To be continued. 

In the Forefront 


The Megaphone Man 

General Sam Hughes, the Militant 

Minister of Our Militia 


By John F. Charteris 

WHEN a man is dead, the patient 
shepherd called History puts 
his crook around the de- 
ceased's neck and leads him, 
willy nilly, to the sheepfold or to the 
goatpen, according to his deserts. 
After which a complaisant posterity 
very seldom bothers to re-examine him. 

But while a public man is still living, 
still butting in and baa-ing about, it is 
almost impossible to get between the 
movie operators and the Associated 
Press men, and find out what he is 
really like. 

Especially is this true of such 40- 
knot an hour gentlemen as Theodore- 
to-the-south-of-us, W i 1 1 i a m-'c r o s s- 
the-seas and — attention please — Major 
General the Honorable Sam-in-the- 

We find, on the one hand, such staid 
and pious journals as the Toronto 
Telegram growing unbiblically vitriolic 
under the caption "General Hughes — 
Troublemaker," while the still staider 
.Globe opines that, "He should reflect 
that genius is often closely akin to mad- 
ness," also that "the second quality 
may be present without the first." 

On the other hand — the left one 
that persistently remains in ignorance 
of what the right is up to — we dis- 
cover the Canadian Militia under date 
of 22nd October, promoting the 
Troublemaker from Colonel to Major 
General, and predating the appoint- 
ment so as to ensure the M. G.'s 
seniority over all and sundry. That 
the appointee is also the appointer 
may or may not have influenced the 
King's Printer who set type for the 
little blue appointment sheet, holding 
one hand over his mouth the while. 

But the fact remains, even as Sam 
remains, that the new Major General 


is undoubtedly a personage, and the 
large crowds recognize the fact wher- 
ever the private car, "Roleen," carries 
this stem-gazing, quick-saluting, blue- 
caped man of whom Lord Roberts 
said: "in organizing the Canadian 
Overseas Contingent, he displayed a 
driving force and a military genius 
without a parallel in history !" 

The Nation's Drillmaster is — of, 
course — an Ulster Orangeman. And 
a Methodist at that. He comes of the 
farthest-wandering, the hardest-hitting, 
loudest^shouting race in the world. 
And when you add to this such a strain 
as comes from the French blood of his 
greatgrandfather General St. Pierre, 
who was killed at Waterloo together 
with two of his sons — why, you'd ex- 
pect just the handsome scrapper that 
the Hon. Sam has turned out to be, 
sword in one hand, maga phone in the 

At school, Sam used to come home 
with all the athletic medals and cups 
and things buttoned up under his coat. 
When he grew old enough, he tried 
teaching. He was a good teacher. 
But Jarvis St. Collegiate chiefly re- 
members him for the time he chased 
his biggest pupil twelve times around 
the yard, in order to administer a pin 
in the middle of the back, same having 
been the treatment meted out to a 
smaller boy by the culprit. 

In 1885, H'ughes became the editor 
of the Lindsay Warder and held down 
the job, held up the town, held out his 
views, held in — or didn't hold in — the 
Ulstersaintpierre temper for twelve 
smoking years. We would we had a 
copy of that Warder I It must have 
warded sulphurously. 

In 1892 there had occurred a bye- 
election in North Victoria. Just who 
it was that suggested Sam to the public 
we don't know. But we can guess. 
Anyhow, the public acquiesced and 
Sam became a m.ember, which was all 
the foothold needed by a bom climber, 
with his eye on the political Mt. Rob- 

When the South African War ex- 
ploded itself onto a well-red map, Sam 
offered his services. Was declined. 

Went as a freelance. And made good. 
He pitched into the problem of rail- 
way transport up from the Cape; 
became assistant to Inspector General 
Settle on lines of communication ; 
later, Chief of the Intelligence Staff to 
the same General; after which he was 
captured by Sir Charles Warren to per- 
form similar duties in Griqualand and 
Bechuanaland. That the busy war- 
rior ever returned to his native heath, 
indeed, is due solely to the conviction 
that the heath needed him. 

When the present government came 
into power, the new Minister of Militia 
had a blazing opportunity to exercise 
his peculiar gifts. He has been long 
called "the one Canadian worshipper 
of Mars, war clouds being his pet 
scenery." And very gallantly did he 
set forth to inculcate his ideas. 

Canada was busy in her wheat-fields. 
Canada was real estate-crazy, Cobalt- 
and-Gowganda mad. To Canada, the 
word "drill" meant oil, not armies. 

But Colonel Hughes was one of the 
few Canadians who saw that the Kiel 
Canal wasn't built to punt in, and that 
the Krupps weren't making fireworks 
for the Toronto Exhibition. He saw a 
German beyond the sights of his pet 
Canadian Rifle. And he was so busy 
seeing Germans and attempting to 
make the Dominion see tandem with 
him, that we find a 1912 correspondent 
of the Ottawa Free Press narrating in 
shocked tones how he ac-tu-al-ly wan- 
dered into the vice-regal box at the 
theatre, wearing an ordinary business 
suit and — ye gods and gazeteers I — a 
necktie, red as War ! 

In December of 1912, London was 
positive that she had him pinned down 
to contribute 8130,000 toward her 
Federal Square, on the ground that 
his soldiers were to parade there. But 
the Board of Education, nose-deep in 
the Wars of the Roses, refused to grant 
prizes to the cadets of the town, under 
the Strathcona Trust, because, for- 
sooth, they didn't believe in militarism. 
Whereupon, London promptly had a 
wire from Sam that made her turn the 
other cheek and then do it all over 

Under date of April 22nd, 1914, the 
peaceloving Toronto Globe enumerates 
and anathematizes the various items 
of the Colonel's expenditures, calling 
him, "the most reckless spender of 
money in a government — " — but you 
know what the Globe wotdd say when 
it got on that subject. Anyhow, Sam 
was proposing to Sammify some $10,- 
500,665 of good Canadian cash, and 
the Hielander's Hymnal sang out that 
"The Colonel must be anticipating 
drill, summer and winter, day and 
night, rain or shine." Parenthetically 
we would ask Constant Reader to com- 
pare this statement with the news 
columns of the same journal six 
months later, and put down a 
white mark for Colonel Sam. 

Perhaps the Militant Minister's 
most crusadeful doings were done 
what time he donned his anti-can- 
teen armor. There had been a 
law against liquor which Sir 
Frederick Borden had allowed to 
slip into conventual seclusion. 
When the Methodist Orange- 
man took over the Militia De- 
partment, however, he cleaned 
it out from garret to cellar, with 
the accent on the cellar. Officers 
were held responsible for the 
ignition-quality of a private's 
breath, and those who sat up 
nights composing resignations', 
got anticipatory postcards that 
such had been taken as read. 
When remonstrated with, 
Hughes would remark, "Change 
^L^he law then, you fools. While 
^^ne law stands, I stand, here 
^K- hereabouts, Gooderham and 
^PVirts to the contrary notwith- 
^standing. Are we down hearted ? 
NO !" 

But it was not until all the 
prophet's war clouds exploded 
into thunder at once, and the 
Kaiser launched his ultimatum 
slap in the face of an astounded 
world, that Hughes got his real 
chance, and that we, alas, descend 
into the congested and clamorous 
^treets of such immediate history that 
can't yet hear ourselves think. 
That the Minister of Militia in six 
ieks collected, full armed, target- 
■actised and finally transported some 
,000 men from Valcartier to Salis- 
bury Plains, is about the only indis- 
putable fact to be ascertained. As to 
whether he did it satisfactorily, scan- 
dalously or only fairly well, depends 
on whether you listen to the Minister 
himself, to "Jack Canuck" and the 
Telegram, or to the Globe. 

Hold on. There's one more fact 
to be jotted down in the "indisput- 
able" column. 

So far as appointments went, there 
was no graft. Sam holds his sword 
in one hand and his megaphone in the 


other, as before stated. There is no 

A colonel in the Wewontsay Dis- 
trict didn't want to volunteer in blank, 
according to orders. He wrote to 
headquarters asking a Colonelcy, re- 
minding the Minister at the same time 
that he was the most influential Tory 
in his locality. The ex-editor took 
out the pen he'd used on the Warder, 
on or about July 12th, and told the 
petitioner that it was a long, long way 

Copyright International News Servi-'e 


to St. Helena, but he'd furnish him 
with the necessary asbestos transporta- 
tion any time he wanted it. 

W^hile the Colonel had Valcartier 
to run and run on about, the cities saw 
but little of him. Once the Contin- 
gent had sailed, however, and the 
Colonel had come back from England 
he took up his residence in the"Roleen" 
and began to talk. 

He is a boon to reporters, this mis- 
chief-making Minister, and a bug-bear 


nightmare-wish-he-wasn't-there to his 
staff, who have to sound the retreat 
so often after their chief's remarks. 

He spent a day in Toronto. The 
press ■scribbled wads of copy. The 
staff set out to censor. The Exhibi- 
tion Grounds were white with the 
fragments that remained. 
He came again to Toronto. 
But of the Hughes-Lessard incident 
it is still unsafe to talk save in whispers, 
with the smoke consumer on. 

The Herald-Telegraph, being down 
in Montreal out of harm's way, re- 
marked as follows: 

"We confess to some amusement at 
the spectacle of the queenly Toronto 
tearing her hair and weeping and 
gnashing her teeth just because Major- 
General, the Honorable Samuel 
Hughes has found it necessary to 
administer to her a little public 
admonition. The General could 
apply a wet shingle to Halifax, 
take Quebec by the scruff of the 
neck, and even make Mon- 
treal ridiculous in the eyes of 
the Dominion by publicly 
forbidding her to do a thing, 
and privately assisting her in 
the doing of it. All this he 
could do, but he was still 
'darling boy' in Toronto. But 
now — !" • 

The Evening News (Mon- 
treal) was even more ribald. 

"After the recent military 
sensations in Toronto the un- 
fortunate impression may go 
abroad that foot and mouth 
disease has spread into this 

"Earthquake shock in To- 
ronto ? 

t "Oh, no; 'twas only Sam 
Hughes and the Toronto Tele- 
gram expressing their ideas at one 
and the same time." 

As to what the Telegram really 
did say — but we don't want to 
have to run an expurgated edi- 
tion expressly for churchmembers. 
Samuel is now engaged in recruiting 
the remainder of the 108,000 men he 
says he wants. He came to London 
and talked to the Canadian Club in 
language that gave ample excuse for 
the Advertiser' s allegation that he 
said he'd saved the first contingent 
from German destroyers by his refusal 
to accept Kitchener's statement that 
the convoy was sufficient, until he'd 
been assured j ust how and when and how 
much each ship could do in the gun-line. 
To be sure, Sam the Smoother took 
a few of the crinkles out of the Minis- 
ter's words by the time the reporters 
got around to interviewing him in 
regard to the usual contradicting of 
his speech. But that doesn't go for 
much with the present writer who was 
there and heard him. 


In the evening, however, the General 
left the megaphone down on the shunt- 
track with the "Roleen" and did a 
"'stunt with the sword instead, to such 
good effect that the Opera House was 
filled to its top note, and everybody 
talked Canadian Contingent for days 
thereafter, to the great benefit of the 
recruiting officers. 

A single incident, characteristic to a 
degree, may conclude this sketch. 

There was a plot unearthed in Lon- 
don, whereby the Minister was to be 
shot by four Turks whom the ix)lice 
got tucked away the day before their 
intended victim's arrival. 

"What do you think of it ?" asked 
the reporters. 

"Why — er- — bully for them," said 
the Honorable Sam; "Did they have 
Ross rifles ?" 

Nursing Matron Mar- 
garet Macdonald 

A Natural Born Nurse Who Has 

Seen Service on many 


By Madge Macbeth 

THERE are comparatively few of 
our soldiers who have seen any 
more actual service on the field 
of battle than has Nursing 
Matron Margaret Chisholm Mac- 

Born in Bailey's Brook, Nova Scotia, 
she comes from a country which has 
produced a startling number of illus- 
trious Canadians. Pictou County was 
the home of the late Sir William Daw- 
son, Principal of McGill University, the 
late George Grant, Principal of Queen's 
University, the Rev. Dr. Gordon, its 
present Principal, President Falconer, 
of the University of Toronto, and too 
many statesmen of prominence to be 
named at the moment. It is a Scotch- 
Presbyterian community, all save a 
small isolated section which abuts 
Antigonish, and which is ninety-nine 
per cent. Scotch Roman Catholic. To 
this faith belongs the family of D. D. 
Macdonald, County Councillor, for 

His daughter, Margaret, was born 
with an aptitude for nursing. She pre- 
ferred to play with sick dolls, was 
interested in the ailments of all the 
dependents about the place, and was 
not bowled over by the sight of a gory 
pose. After very youthful school days 
in Bailey's Brook, she went to Halifax 
to study, and from there she went to 
New York to train as a nurse. Her 
course was finished just about the time 
of the Spanish-American War, and she 
offered her services to the United 



States Government. They were 
accepted, and she saw service at 
Montauk Point. Later, Miss Mac- 
donald was made a member of the 
Spanish-American War Nurses' Asso- 
ciation, and the American Red Cross 

At the outbreak of the South African 
War, she volunteered to the Canadian 
Government, and was accepted, leaving 
with the first Canadian Contingent for 
the front. 

The story runs that Miss Macdonald 
was attending to a wounded soldier 
under fire, when a piece of shell struck 
her, tearing her arm. Unmindful of 
herself, she continued to dress the 
soldier's hurt, even though an officer 
who rode by and saw what had hap- 
pened, urged her to get herself attended 
to. It is said that some time later, 
when the circumstance was brought to 
the notice of a prominent general, and 
when he commended her pluck and 
bravery, she drew herself up, saluted 
and replied, "It was nothing, sir! I 
am the daughter of a Highlander!" 

Miss Macdonald came home with 
several other nurses, only to find that 
unpleasantness had again broken out 
and she was needed a second time in 
South Africa. She was one of the first 
women in Kimberly after the coming of 
the relief expedition, and was present 
at the taking of Pretoria. 

She then took a Post Graduate 
Course in New York, and following 
that, went to Panama. Perhaps this 
noble piece of heroism will be better 
appreciated when it is understood that 
at the time mentioned, the camps and 
hospitals — the very Isthmus itself — 
were rank with pestilence. No one, 
until the coming of Colonel Gorgas, had 
dreamed of stamping out yellow fever; 

those who dared live in Panama either 
deficHi it or were resigned to the possi- 
bility of dying with it. It was in all 
truth and literalness — The Yellow 

In order to keep the place made grim by 
the hand of Death as bright and cheer- 
ful as they could, pots of flowers were 
made to bloom in every window. Elach 
pot stmjd in a vessel of water, thus not 
only attracting the mosquito but pro- 
viding the most desirable breeding- 
place within reach of those whom they 
meant to attack! 

Sister Macdonald escaped yellow 
fever but contracted malaria. She 
went home, recovered and returned to 
Panama. Hers was the wonderful 
experience of seeing one of the most 
dreaded diseases of the tropics abso- 
lutely stamped out; she saw twenty- 
five hundred panic-stricken men throw 
down their implements of work and 
leave the Isthmus at the outbreak of an 
epidemic — and she saw the last case of 
yellow fever which has been known at 
Panama ! 

Seeking her native shores once more 
she was appointed Nursing Sister of the 
Canadian Permanent Army Medical 
Corps Nursing Service, November '06, 
with the rank of Lieutenant. She is 
saluted just as any other Army Officer 
would be. In 1911 the Militia Depart- 
ment of the Canadian Government sent 
her to England to study the administra- 
tion, organization and mobilization of 
the Queen Alexandra Imperial Nursing 
Service, which stood her in good stead 
a few months ago when she had to 
mobilize her small army of nurses who 
left with the first contingent. She and 
Matron Ridley are in charge of the 
nurses — approximately one hundred — 
who volunteered from Canada. 

Mrs. Arthur Murphy, 
"Janey Canuck" 

A Woman Whom the Great Northwest 
Delights to Honor 

By Michael J. Svenceski. 

NEVER heard of a woman bron- 
cho-buster? No? WTiat's 
that ? Impossible you say ? 
Far from it, stranger. Sure 
and it may look impossible but — Who 
is it, you want to know ? Well, she's 

Mrs. Ar , but first let me tell you 

about this" wonderful Canadian woman 
and a few, just a few of the many things 
she has done to make a wandering 
waif called Fame come home to stay. 
This great Western-Canadian has 
broken more than one broncho and 
the peace and placidity -of many a 
slothful politician in Alberta. And 
she has done many other things besides. 

What would you think of a woman who 
"hiked" and "mushed" thousands of 
miles through pre-railway country in 
the far north and then called it "a 
jolly outing?" — a woman who inter- 
ested herself in the new towns of 
Alberta and helped plan them; a wo- 
man who is concerned in and working 
for a dozen or more societies of various 
kinds; who reared a family; made a 
home; wrote books, and scribbled 
cheques f.or charity; conducted coal 
mines, pink teas, sold farms and 
hospital tags; invested in timber 
Umits and tr , just a mo- 
ment and I'll tell you who 
it was. It was none other 
than Mrs. Arthur Murphy, 
"Janey Canuck," who is mak- 
ing Canadian history by being 
one of the greatest personali- 
ties among the many famous 
Canadian women of her time, 
so great, that King George 
has just now conferred upon 
her the decoration of Lady 
of Grace of St. John of Jeru- 
salem. Her home is in Ed- 
monton, the farthest north 
metropoUs in America, but 
she is a native of Ontario, 
being born in Cookstown in 
Simcoe County. 

In the modem book of 
revelations. Who's Who and 
Why, — you will find that she 
went to school at Bishop 
Strachan's School, Toronto. 
She was married to Arthur 
Murphy, M.A., and has two 
daughters. She came to Ed- 
monton seven years ago and 
since then has had little time 
to go back, and then only 
to tell what a glorious place 
the Far West really is. 

Mrs. Murphy holds the 
Presidency of the Canadian 
Women's Press Club; she is 
Convener of Committee on 
Peace and Arbitration, 
National Council of Women 
of Canada; Vice-president of 
the Board of Control of the 

mitorium for Tuberculosis, 

rovince of Alberta; only 

sman Member of the Board 
Directors of the Edmon- 

^n City Hospitals; Founder 

id Honorary President of 
Edmonton Women's Canadian Club; 
Honorary President of the Ladies' Hos- 
pital Aid of Edmonton; Member of the 
•Ontario Historic Society; Member of 
the Daughters of the Empire, and of 
the Canadian Handicrafts' Society. 

And yet, when I was ushered into 
the study in Mrs. Murphy's home in 
Edmonton, I did not find, as one 
might have expected, a woman, weigh t- 
■ed down with the numerous cares of 


office, and burdened by a terrific load 
of responsibilities. Nor did I find her 
wearing mannish clothes, eye-glasses 
and close-cropped hair, as literary 
women sometimes do. Neither was 
she smoking a cigarette. 

Far from it, the woman who came 
in to greet the interviewer was dressed 
in plain black, but there were red 
roses in her cheeks and the way she 
gave you her hands reminded the 
interviewer immediately that this was 
the^West and full of that well-known 
western quality, hospitality. 


Whose chief hobby is clieerfulness 

111 at ease ? Home itself could not 
have been more comfortable for, in a 
few moments, Mrs. Murphy made one 
forget all self-consciousness. She chat- 
ted about the country, and the city, 
asking how the interviewer liked it, 
if he were going to stay long and what 
were his plans ? Never once did she 
mention anything she herself was doing. 
In fact, it appeared that your cares 
and worries were the onlV ones that 


could worry her and that she, herself, 
was quite willing to shoulder them if 

Then the telephone bell tiqkled and 
a maid came in to say: 

"Mrs. Murphy's wanted on the 
phone." With a word to be excused, 
and a promise to be back immediately, 
the lady being interviewed hurried out 
to answer the call. 

"Yes, this is Mrs. Murphy speaking." 
Quiet ensued for a few minutes, then : 
"Yes, I see." More quantities of 
quiet; then: 

"Oh ! I am so sorry. 
Really I am, but, although 
I will promise to help you 
in every way possible I 
couldn't accept — yes. What 
is that ?" A longer period of 

"No, I am sorry," this with 
firmness which was instantly 
relieved with, "but I'll tell 
you what I'll do. I can help 
you indirectly in some work- 
ing position." The other 
end of the wire received the 
conversation and must have 
pleaded for a long time but 
Mrs. Murphy finished with : 
"Oh ! yes, I'll assuredly 
support it, but you see, I 
can't take such a position 
as you offer. ^Yes ! Good- 
bye," and the receiver got 
the hook in double-quick 

As Mrs. Murphy re- 
turned to [the room the 
interviewer raised his eye- 
brows, sensing a little epi- 
sode which might throw 
some light on the character 
of the interviewed. True to 
his newspaper instinct, it 
did. Mrs. Murphy smiled. 
"They called up to ask 
me to take the presidency 
of a new industrial society 
which is being formed here. 
I worked a long time to get 
it started but just because 
of the interest I showed, I 
don't want to take a fore- 
most position. Office 
hampers one's output of 
work," said Mrs. Murphy, 
dismissing the subject and 
turning to other interesting 
She spoke of the great land 
re love so much, Canada. 
She discussed the Old North-west, but 
when she turned to the question 
of th6 New North, that vast land 
of opportunity and optimism, her 
speech took on a prophetic aspect. 
Tlirf>ughout the interview, no matter 
what topic was under fire, she aws 
always interesting and amusing, fiU- 
mg her recital with whimsical say- 



inig*> and quecrly turned phrases. 

The clock struck five. Two hours 
had flown like a few moments. The 
interviewer begged to be excused and 
hurried away but before leaving he 
received an invitation to call again. 

"We're going to have a bonfire out 
in the yard this evening, so be sure 
to come," concluded Mrs. Murphy, 
closing the door. "What celebration 
is on, I wonder," thought the inter- 
viewer, and decided to call and find 

At the appointetl hour the scribbler 
of notes was on hand, and the maid 
showed him into the back yard. There 
grouped around the big fire, were Mr. 
Murphy the two young ladies of the 
family, and Mrs. Murphy. 

"What is the celebration ?" asked 
the knight of the pad and pencil, com- 
ing to the point immediately following 
the intrcductions. 

"Oh ! The death of King Rubbish," 
answered Mrs. Murphy laughing. 
"Didn't you see the signs on the street 
cars ?" 

"Yes," replied the interviewer 

"And their command was ?" 

" 'Don't forget. This is Clean-up 
week' ". The phrase tumbled out 
fresh from its impression by the street- 
car advertisiug. 

"Yes — well this bonfire is the Clean- 
up- — " and, looking into the next yard, 
the interviewer saw another bonfire 
and in the yard farther on, another 
and everywhere the smoke of the fires 

arose to heaven the sacrifice of 

King Rubbish — municipally instigated. 
Edmonton's big Clean-up work was in 
progress, due directly to a society in 
which Mrs. Murphy is a virtual leader. 

"Don't you love to watch a big 
Tacnfire ? — I dc- — " said Mrs. Murphy, 
bringing the joumahst back from his 
survey, as she poked the fire into a 
brighter blaze. "I think," she con- 
tinued, "that all our household like to 
watch a blazing fire — all except Lena," 
and here Mrs. Murphy laughed. 

"The cook ?" questioned the inter- 

"Yes !" went on Mrs. Murphy. 
"One day Lena dropped a coal in the 
yard here and when the fence caught 
fire, and the dry grass was blazing 
high, Lena walked into the drawing- 
ret m where a meeting was in progress 
ar.d calmly announced the fire just 
as she would have said, 'Dinner is 
served.' Lena is a foreigner." 

"You have interested yourself in 
the foreigners, haven't you, Mrs. 
Murphy? Written several stories about 
them, too ?" interrupted the man of 

"I think it's the prime duty of a31 
Canadians to help the newly arrived 
foreigners as much as they would tire 
Canadian bom. We must make tbesm 


over into good Canadians; educate 
them and bring them up to our stan- 
dard, and not let them drag us down 
to theirs. We must imbue them with 
the love of work, and the spirit of 
cheerfulness. And the greatest of 
these things is cheerfulness." 

"Why optimism ?" and the scribbler 
smiled as he said it. 

"Now, young man," began Mrs. 
Murphy, "I warn you. Don't start 
me on a favorite topic," and she shook 
a finger of warning at the interviewer. 

"All right then, Mrs. Murphy, let 
me ask you about " 

"Literature?" questioned Mrs. 
Murphy quickly. 

"Which, Shakespeare's or yours," 
the scribbler could not' help saying. 

The warning finger went up again 
quickly, but, even as it rose, the great 
woman broke into a cheery laugh say- 
ing something about "pranks of youth." 
She herself is youthful — youth always 
is optimistic and who is more opti- 
mistic than Mrs. Murphy ? Her 
personality will afifect even the least 
impressionable of people. Take that 
story that comes from the great Peace 
River country. 

A well-known editor went up into 
that country a year after Mrs. Murphy 
had passed by. He stopped at a 
settler's home and begged the settler's 
wife for a drink of water. They gave 
him milk and while the thirsty news- 
picker drank, the homesteader tried 
to entertain his guest with his choicest 

"Yes," drawled the Northerner, "a 
body does see a 'tarnation lot of people 
passin' along this trail. There's maybe 
two a day besides the regular freights. 
Why, there's all kinds come by. But 
the one we remember best is a woman. 
Wonder now if you know her, maybe ? 
Funny kind of woman, she w^as too. 
Makes you feel when you're talking 
to her as if she's more'n six feet. Her 
voice is big and gentle, and her mind, 
is big too, I reckon — " 

"And her heart," chimed in the 
settler's wife, who would have said 
more had not her lord and master 
demanded the floor. 

'T reckon so. But when she's gone 
and you look down the trail, why she 
ain't more'n five feet- D'ye know her?" 

^"Who is she ? What's she do ?" 
asked the newspaperman. "Squaw ? 
Settler's wife ? Missionary ? W'hat's 
she look Tike ?'" 

"Squaw ?'' The settler's face wore 
the look of a man who had witnessed a 
■safcralege. "Say, she ain't no squaw," 
he said. '"'You don't know that wom- 
an. Why she just talks and makes 
folks feel better, that's all. Ever 
know what it is to take a nip of some- 
thing good after you've heen mushing, 
•mushing on the trail for hours ? Well, 
that's w^at she's Tike. She's the most 

cheerfullest person I ever see. Why 
when she struck our shack here, why 
Mary, was — well, that don't matter. 
But anyway, that woman sure did us 
good. Let's see, what's her name now? 
W'hat was it, Mary ?" 

"I just can't think of it, but it was 
Murray or Mur — " began the wife 
frowning in her endeavor to recall the 

"Yes ! that's it. Murphy. Know 
anybody by that name ?" 

"Mrs. Arthur Murphy — Janey 

"Yes ! That's the whole thing. A 
wri ter- woman . " 

"Why yes: I've heard of her," said 
the newspaperman . ' 'She writes abou t 
this country and writes well." ' 

"Don't know how she writes but 
she is sure some fine woman. I'd 
rather see her a-coming up the trail 
most any day than the freights or the 
mail. Wouldn't you, Mary ?" 

There had been a family row in the 
settler's household when the woman 
passing on the trail had come in. 
There had been a sick baby, a dis- 
pirited hu.sband and a half-sick wife. 
The household was practically in ruins, 
both mentally and materially. But 
when "Janey Canuck" came in she 
brought the germ that cures all ail- 
fnents — cheerfulness and optimism. 
Before she left the house that day, the 
baby was better, the wife was well, and 
the settler in good humor for the first 
time for weeks. In that settler's home 
to-day, you'll find a little oil lamp that 
sits on the mantle-piece over the fire 
place. It is only a cheap lamp. The 
settler bought it for his wife after Mrs. 
Murphy left. It was a luxury in those 
days of candles. The settler is rich 
now — a railroad runs by his farm, but 
the little lamp .sits on the mantelpiece, 
lit only on great occasions, blinking its 
message of cheerfulness and good -will. 
It is a monument to the joy of_ life 
that one woman brought into a home, 
and the joy-bringer was "Jane\- 
Canuck." Were it not too flippant 
the lamp might be called a shining 
monument. But let it p)ass; a monu- 
ment is a monument whether it is a 
lamp or a stone. 

And this brings us to the fact that 
Mrs. Murphy is interested, among 
other things, in preser\-ing Canadian 
land-marks and in recording the things 
of to-day for the benefit of those who 
come to-morrow. The historic land- 
mark called Eort Edmonton was doom- 
ed for destruction a short time ago 
but Mrs. Murphy stepped in and its 
Judgment Day passed. 

Only last week a new arrival in 
Edmonton asked a citizen two ques- 
tions in one mouthful : 

"Who is the mayor of this town ? 
Who runs the city ?" 

Continued on page 191. 

With Our Contingent Abroad 

THE lads in khaki, each one 
in his own way, are draw- 
ing mind pictures of the 
homefolk and the things that 
were the daily routine last year. 
By the time this arrives you'll 
be shaking the snow off your 
furs and huddling up close to 
the radiator. Possibly you think 
about us and shiver at the 
hardships you imagine us as 
suffering. The hard times may 
come soon, when we reach the 
spot two hundred miles away, 
where the British and French 
and Belgians are fighting in 
water-soaked trenches; but at 
present we're as cheerful as 
though we were back home by 
the big base-burner, or open 
fire, digesting New Year dinners. 
We have become very well ac- 
quainted, in fact friends, with 
out-door life ; and we've almost 
forgotten that people can wear 
any clothing other than khaki, 
or live and move and have their 
being except as the bugle com- 
mands them. We feel that 
we're becoming real soldiers. 

Our daily life cannot be 
called very luxurious or easy, 
but it is certainly healthful, and 
with a sound digestion, warm 
clothes and plenty of exercise, 
one can be happy. There is 
one drawback to camp life in England, 
and that is the weather. Somebody 
up above must have turned on the 
tap just after we landed, and forgotten 
to turn it off again. We've had only 
about three days without rain since 
we landed, and we've been here almost 
a month. We plough through so 
much mud and water that "Gyp the 
Louie," one of the many humorists of 
our company remarked to-day: "Say 
fellows, what's good for corns on the 
'soles of your feet ?" 

So far we've been lucky in having 
the heaviest showers at hours when 
we're off parade. The rain in Eng- 
land, if more persistent, is not so heavy 
as the rain in Canada, and one can be 
out on a rainy day for an hour or two 
without suffering much inconvenience 
beyond a soggy great coat. Greased 
boots and puttees form a thoroughly 
efficient protection against wet feet. 
If the shower becomes a deluge we are 
usually ordered off parade into our 
tents before we get too uncomfortable. 

To-day was rather typical of what 
England presents us with each twenty- 
four hours. In the morning the 
sky was covered with dense grey 

By Private H. R. Gordon 

Copyright International News Service 




clouds, and a high wind made the 
tents rattle. We got up by candle- 
light — reveille is at 6 a. m. — slipped on 
our boots and sweaters and drowsily 
answered the roll call as the orderly 
sergeant deciphered the names by the 
light of a smoking lantern. We had 
our usual constitutional, a brisk run 
around the officers' tents, in which 
there was beginning to be a stir, past 
the patient lines of blanketed horses 
and back over the muddy parade 
ground to our tents. We washed in 
the icy water at the taps two hundred 
yards away, arranged our kits, folded 
our blankets and swept out the board 
floors of our tents. These board floors 
are a great convenience, and insure 
dry and comfortable living when the 
ground is cold and soggy. Most of 
the battalions in the contingent have 

Breakfast at 7.30 a.m., consisted of 
bacon and hot tea, along with the 
bread, jam and cheese, which are on 
hand for all meals. One man from each 
tent goes up to the cook-house to get 
the supply for himself and his comrades, 
in a big iron pot — a "dixie." 

After breakfast we had a little 

breathing spell to clean rifles, 
polish buttons and grease our 
boots. About this time "news- 
ies" from London come up with 
the "pipers," beseeching us to 
read and learn "all abaht it." 
So we read: "In the north the 
battle continues with great 
violence. On the rest of the 
front there is nothing to report," 
and similar tantalizing scraps of 
news. Curiously enough, we 
seldom talk much about the 
war. It is safe to say that one 
would hear more discussion of 
it in almost any Canadian 
street car than in the whole 
of our camp. We become pre- 
occupied with tWe work nearest 
hand, and are usually too busy 
to bother thinking out infallible 
schemes for destroying the Ger- 
man armies and navy and cap- 
turing the Kaiser. 

At 8.45 we fell in. Fifteen 
minutes later we were out on 
the broad slope of a valley, at 
drill. Over here we do not go 
in for the barrack square type of 
drill. Every evolution we go 
through is an evolution that 
will come in useful when we go 
to the front. We get a great 
deal of skirmishing work. One 
minute we'll be marching along at ease 
in a long column, chatting and passing 
jokes up and down the line, or singing — 
the next, at a whistle and a wa^"e of 
the captain's arm, the column melts 
suddenly into what appears to be an 
unorganized mob, all running at top 
speed. Ten seconds later the compact 
column is spread across a front of two 
hundred yards in a straight line. At 
another whistle and a shake of the 
captain's fist, we move forward at the 
double, section commanders in the 
rear exhorting the laggards in unpar- 
liamentary language to "keep up 
there." Yet another whistle and the 
captain raises his arm — everyone dives 
to the ground. Men here and there 
wriggle a few feet to take advantage 
of some slight depression in the ground. 
The company is ready for action. 

To-day we had this sort of drill, 
with variations all morning. We 
practised advancing to the attack, with 
scouts out ahead; and connecting files 
to pass the information from the front 
to the supports and the reserves. We 
use semaphore signals for this. Dif- 
ferent positions of the arms indicate 
different letters of the alphabet. One 
letter we all learned early, was "B," 
formed by holding the right arm in a 


horizontal position. Already a large 
proportion of the fellows, having a 
bowing acquaintance with semaphore 
signalling, and being of practical minds 
realize how useful a speaking acquaint- 
ance would be, have decided to master 
t-he System. 

How Veterans Teach the 

Recruits to Battle 

with Bayonets 

Half an hour every morning is devot- 
ed to bayonet drill. Nearly every day 
the news from the front includes the 
story of a hand to hand struggle. The 
bayonet seems to be as important as 
the bullet in this war. Every com- 
pany, in our battalion at least, includes 
anywhere from a dozen to a score old 
soldiers. They get out in front and 
show us the various guards and thrusts. 
We follow these movements as well 
as we can, and occasionally have duels 
— using the rifles without bayonets 
fixed. It is a little hard on the hands, 
especially when a projecting foresight 
from the rifle of one's opponent re- 
moves the skin of one's knuckles, but 
we enjoy it. We find it very similar 
to boxing, and it's excellent exercise 
for the arms and body. 

Morning parade was over at noon. 
Ten minutes later we were getting our 
skilly inside us. The one staple article 
of diet that has been good uniformily 
is the "skilly," or Irish stew. The 
boiling makes the meat tender, and 
the carrots and cabbage make the 
soup quite palatable. A mess tin full 
of skilly, a hunk of "punk," as we call 
our bread, plenty of jam, a long swig 
at the water bottle make a meal fit for 
a king, if the king was as hungry as we 
always are after a morning's work. 

English weather became obtrusive 
when the bugle blew for afternoon 
parade. A fine rain, driven by squalls 
of wind made us glad to turn up our 
greatcoat collars. We slopped off 
through the mud to the ranges for 
musketry practice. The targets we 
have to shoot at are not the squares of 
white with black bullseyes in the 
centre, familiar to all of us, but blots 
of khaki the size of a man's head and 
shoulders, on a back-ground of dull 
green. Another battalion was using 
the range when we arrived. We hud- 
dled together in little rings to escape 
the searching, wind -driven rain. Did 
we grumble ? We did not. We com- 
pared notes of our experiences on 
leave, or had little intimate controver- 
sies about the homefolk, some mak- 
ing sensible and others utterly ridi- 
culous guesses as to what they were 
doing. "The boss would be giving me 
blazes for taking an hoiir and a half 
for lunch," said one clerk from a big 
Toronto warehouse. "I wonder who 


had to pay for the pool table to-day ? 
I used to be the goat when I was 
home." "How'd you like to be back?" 
I asked. "Not for a million bucks," 
was the reply. 

At last the order to move came, and 
we ploughed back to camp, with the 
rain stinging our faces. We plunged 
into our tents, hung up our sopping 
greatcoats on nails "obtained" from a 
shack in course of erection nearby, and 
set to work to fix our rifles. They 
receive rather more grooming than we 
do ourselves. A rifle neglected now, 
may mean a helpless man in the firing 
line sometime in the future. 

A more usual programme for the 
afternoon is a route march, with full 
kit on. The big knapsack on our 
backs and the haversack and water 
bottle at each side, make us look like 
AValking Christmas trees, but the 
weight of the equipment is so dis- 
tributed that one doesn't feel it much. 
Yesterday afternoon we did a little 
ten mile hike. We were off across the 
close cropped turf by two o'clock. We 
swung along for a mile or so, up a long 
slope, past a clump of hardwoods, with 
the leaves still on them, through a val- 
ley, to a muddy lane with "out of 
bounds" signs on both sides of it. We 
went through the foot deep mud as 
best we could and had our first halt 
on the other side. Pipes and cigarettes 
were lighted and our platoon was 
entertained by a humorous monologue 
by our sergeant, "Hub." We heard 
all about the doings at a York county 
farm when a bunch of village cut-ups 
undertook to get in the hay, and how 
"the best little pal in the world, fel- 
lows," is waiting at home for him. 

The Pace the Pipers Set 

Proves Strenuous for 


'Shortly after the march was resumed 
we struck a real road; smooth, hard 
macadam, unbroken by tractor engines, 
and — free from mud, thank Heaven. 
Our ancient rivals, the 48th of Toronto, 
were swinging along to, "The Cock 
of the North," shrilled out by two 
pipers with a gusto that would 
make piper Findlater green with envA'. 
We stretched our legs, and made some 
speed up that hill to get away from the 
sound. The pace became hotter and 
the short-legged fellows had to break 
into a dog-trot to keep up. "There's 
the last of London out of me," wheezed 
a veteran, back the preceding night 
from three day's leave to the city of 
fog! We saw the Highlanders halt for 
a rest, and as we got our five minutes 
breathing spell we sat down in a field 
overgrown with yellow mustard, and 
dotted with orange poppies — and this 
in the middle of December. 

The five minutes up, we were pound- 
ing the macadam again. We passed 
through Shrewton village, a single 
narrow street shut in by brick walls, 
neat little boxes of houses, and bams 
with thatched roofs. The thatch, 
weather-worn to a rich drab, gives the 
villages a curiously "other world" 
appearance. There was a long hill 
outside the village. We had been 
marching at a pretty good pace, be- 
tween four and five miles an hour, 
and didn't slow down for a mere trifle 
like a quarter mile hill, so were pretty 
thoroughly tired when we reached the 
summit. We started to sing, first 
"Tipperary," then "I've been working 
on the railroad," and "There's a girl 
in the heart of Maryland." We forgot 
all about feeling tired and footsore, 
and almost before we knew it, we were 
scrambling through the gap in the 
bridge a few hundred yards from our 

In the evening the Y. M. C. A. is the 
centre of camp activities. Last night 
the wind was blowing a gale, and a rain 
was coming down in bucketsfull. We 
doubled across the pools of mud and 
water on the parade ground, into the 
smoky brilliance of the big marquee. 
The place was jammed. The Y. M. 
C. A. and the Canadian War Contin- 
gent Association have combined to keep 
the tables supplied with stationery, 
and periodicals. About seven o'clock 
the usual evening concert began. At 
one end of the marquee the Y. M. C. A. 
people have a piano, and enough 
benches to accommodate a couple of 
hundred men. To-night they've been 
singing, "Rule Britannia," "Who Kill- 
ed Cock Robin," "I want a Girl Like 
the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad," 
"I Wonder How the Old Folks are at 
Home," and a clever parody about 
"The Gang We Left Behind." We 
have solos too, good, bad, and rotten. 
Some of them are old songs resurrected, 
and new to most of us. A retired army 
captain is giving us a little talk — one 
could scarcely call it a sermon — on 
clean living. A good many of the 
chaps in camp, away from home for 
the first time, find these talks very* 
helpful. There are no frills, no dodg- I 
ing — just plain straight talk. The i 
Y. M. C. A. men over here are con- 
siderably older than our "Y" men at 
home, and quite a number seem to be 
ex-soldiers. They take their own time 
about doing things, but seem to 
arrive just the same. About this time, 
we're thinking about a cup of tea and 
a bun at the canteen, and then to bed — 
This last process isn't as simple as it 
sounds. Nine of us and a grub box 
occupy a circle fourteen feet in dia- 
meter, and there's usually a young 
riot before every one is settled. "For 
the love of Mike, move over," calls 

out Dick, "there's only six inches for 
Corpie and me to get into." "Get 
out," sings back John, "why you short- 
sighted shrimp, you've got half the 
tent:"" "Wallop him with the mallet," 
•advises Hughie. "Who asked you to 
butt in, you piece of cheese," roar both 
disputants. The rest of us lie back 
and laugh — if we did the same on the 
vaudeville stage we'd be famous. 

We have had a great many rainy 
nights, but so far, the tent has leaked 
seriously only once. I wakened — 
Hughie's howls for somebody to throw 
him a life-line would have stirred the 
dead — to find that we were reposing 
in a growing lake. We lit candles, 
cursed under our breath, rubbed our- 
selves down with towels and got into 
dry clothes. And we didn't even 
catch cold — our outdoor life having 
made us almost immune from any 
kind of sickness. 

We have had one or two special 
occasions to break the monotony of 
ordinary drill. Early in November the 
whole contingent was inspected by 
the King, the Queen, Lord Kitchener 
and Lord Roberts. It was not spec- 
tacular. Each battalion lined the road ; 
the Royal party drove up in auto- 
mobiles and walked down our ranks. 
The King, slightly stooped, his face 
deeply lined, looked exactly what he 
is — the hardest worked man in the 
Empire. He seemed determined to 
know everything about each individual 
unit, and we heard him asking ques- 
tions in a firm decided voice. Queen 
Mary was much more gracious and 
beautiful than her photographs por- 
tray her. Then came Kitchener, who 
is big, and looks the confidence-inspir- 
ing, solid, steel-willed man, that he is. 
He strode along, not moving his head, 
but apparently seeing everything. Be- 
hind him was Lord Roberts, whom we 
were so soon to lose. "Bobs," who 
had, and has, a larger share of the 
Empire's heart than any other soldier. 
The fellows marveled — eighty-two 
years of age, yet marching ahead as 
erect as a lance, and looking every 
"inch the soldier he was— and then 
some. We cheered them all tremen- 
^dously as they drove off, cheered like 
Bisciplined soldiers, but each enthusias- 
fec individual fairly tingled with pride 
Hiat he was British and could fight 
or his Empire. The procession of 
Jiotor cars was concluded by a car 
lull of Scotland Yard "Bobbies." We 
kave them a cheer too. and the red 
face of the sergeant in charge glowed 
irith the grandest grin you ever saw. 
Most of us have had our leave by 
bis time. We have all found out 
iiat however cold and distant the 
inglish may be to strangers, they're 
be most hospitable people in the 


world when they think you're all right. 
And the little bronze maple leaves on 
our caps and collars are a sure pass- 
port. Nearly everybody was only too 
anxious to do something for the Cana- 
dians. Some of the theatres admitted 
our fellows at half price. At the 
hotels we were given the best rooms. 
And we were always bumping into 
people who thanked us for coming 
across to do our bit for the Mother 
Country. I was leaving the station 
at Bath, and was looking around in a 
rather puzzled way, when a fine look- 
ing man of the "middleclass" type 
came up and said: "Can't I do some- 
thing for you ?" He directed me to 
the street I wanted, then added: 
"Won't you come home and have din- 
ner with me. I'd be proud to have 


chance to renew acquaintances with a 
sure-enough bath tub. One day after 
revelling in this luxury, we went over 
to the Trocadero and had a meal — 
such a meal. Words couldn't do that 
fillet of sole and pheasant anything 
near justice. We orderd things we 
knew would take longest, so we could 
tantalize ourselves and thereby ap- 
preciate it more when it arrived. The 
only fault with the dinner was that, 
at the most interesting stage, that 
orchestra persisted in playing patriotic 
airs, through which we had to stand 
at attention. 

Saturday night we strolled up some 
of the side streets. It seemed as if 
the world and his wife were out, and 
everything from a sofa to a chestnut 
was offered for sale at the stalls on the 

Copyright Inltrnalional News Service 


you. We think it's magnificent the 
way you fellows from Canada have 
come over." 

On one of our eventful days of leave, 
we were at a hotel in London when a 
charming elderly woman came over 
to our table and said : "Do you think 
people thank you splendid chaps 
enough, for giving up everything and 
coming over here to help us?" Hughie, 
the spokesman of the crowd said: 
"We haven't done anything yet, but 
we hope to. However, one thing our 
whole contingent is going to be firm 
about is that the German army must 
not be entirely annihilated — we want 
two soldiers saved, because we want 
to use them in moving pictures." 

One of the best features of leave is a 

curbstones. The "Ward" in Toronto 
on an August evening is a miniature 
of it. Nobody, there at least, seemed 
to be worrying about the outcome of 
the war, or the possibility of a Zeppelin 

We dined in a little French restau- 
rant. Our waiter fairly bubbled over 
with enthusiasm at serving men who 
were going to help restore Alsace and 
Lorraine. When we were leaving he 
insisted on shaking hands all 'round, 
and exclaiming to each one "Vive la 
France, Vive I'Anglettere, vive la 
Canada." How long, I wonder before 
the little Frenchman can shake our 
hands and know that his hopes have 
been realized, and what will the toll 
have been ? God alone knows. 

Modern Forts vs. German" Guns 



By ''R. B." 

Illustrated from photographs 

ONE of the great questions now 
in the melting pot of the Euro- 
pean War is the practical value 
of the modern fortress. Have 
the expenditures of untold millions 
been justified by results ? Were Ver- 
dun and Liege and N^mur and Prze- 
mysl as ''worth while" as their archi- 
tects anticipated ? Only the end of 
the war can bring a satisfying answer, 
for these are times of experiment, of 
"trying-on processe;s," of surprises and 
battered prophecies. 

If any pet theory must go by the 
board, the implicit confidence of 
nations in their "impregnable" forti- 
fications must be selected for the first 
sacrifice. Liege was impregnable as 
judged by the hitting force of ordinary 
artillery. So was Namur. But the 
Germans lumbered along their forty- 
two-centimetre siege guns, dragged 
them into position by traction engines, 
and let fly shells that, as shown by 
photographs, blew out excavations 
large enough to engulf a three-story 
dwelling. The impregnable fortress 
immediately became a mere stum- 
bling block, troublesome and awkward 
in its way, but marked for inevitable 
destruction. This was not so, of 
course, in the early days of the assaults 


on Liege, for at that time the heaviest 
German artillery was still far to the 
rear and the Belgian resistance grossly 
under-estimated. But from the day 
of the arrival of Germany's monster 
mortars before any of the fortresses, 
the reduction of one position after 
another seemett to be only a matter 
of time. Will the military engineers 
of the future be able to construct an 
impediment capable of withstand- 
ing the assaults of mammoth artillery 
and vicious explosives ? The odds 
certainly favor the man behind the 

Inland Canadians, familiar perhaps 
solely with the mouldering fortifica- 
tions along the international boundary 
line, are in danger of under-estimating 
the stupendous advances during the 
last twenty or thirty years in per- 
manent military defences. With the 
exception of the Island of Orleans, 
Halifax, Esquimault and perhaps one 
or two other points, the Dominion's 
long coast line has been left vulnerable 
to attack. Mutual agreement and 
good -will, stronger than the strongest 
treaty, have relieved the line between 
the Dominion and the United States 
of the necessity for armed defiance. 
For these reasons, therefore, the purse 
of Canada and the mind of Canada have 
been spared the perplexities of arma- 
ment shopping and fortress planning, 
and the gravest military occupation 
of our Federal Parliament has been to 
listen to Colonel-the-Honorable and 
then tease him and taunt him in half- 
hour diatribes. 

@ ^ m 

What Would it Cost Canada to 

Construct a Few of These 

Modern Forts ? 

Just by way of preparation for the 
fort-building propaganda that may 
sweep across Canada at the close of 

the European War, may I intimate that 
the cost of these questionable bul- 
warks runs from one to ten millions 
of dollars. Heligoland, of course, 
cost probably thirty or forty millions 
to build. Koenigsberg and Przemysl 
(pronounced Przemysl) drew enor- 
mous .sums from the national ex- 
chequers. But, taking the average of 
fortresses the world over, it is probable 
that from two to ten million dollars 
apiece would cover their initial cost. 

Then, too, the items of cannon and 
ammunition run away with more 
millions. A single 12-inch rifle costs 
.$45,000, its carriage $41,000, and the 
emplacement of concrete $60,000, a 
total of .S146,000 — for a mere scrap 
of fireworks that may be put out of 
action in a jiflfy. 

In its architectural form, a fortress 
of the modern day has scarcely a point 
of similarity to the fortress of fifty 
years ago. Indeed the protective 
devices against artillery fire on land 
have of necessity kept the same pace 
as developments in naval armament. 
Where the wooden frigate stimulated 
the manufacture of heavier and dead- 
lier guns and explosives, which in turn 
stimulated the construction of stronger 
battleships — a cycle of endless com- 
petition — so the invention of high- 
angle guns and new explosives for land 
employment compelled the radical 
revision of the old-fashioned fortifica- 
tion. Suddenly the high stone wall 
and the towering "keep," so thrillingly 
sufficient in the brave days of old, 
came tumbling down through the 
exigencies of the new day and the new 
deviltries. The wide ojjen forts, like 
Fort Henry at Kingston and Fort 
Garry as it once stood, would be as 
hopelessly and helplessly out of date 
in a 1914 conflict as if built of straw. 
Two well-placed shells aimed from 
five miles out in Lake Ontario would 
toboggan Fort Henry down the slope 
as prettily as if arranged in miniature 
for motion pictures. So with any fort 
of similar type. The maximum of 
hitting power, to match which they 
were constructed seventy or more 
years ago, has been superseded by 
such titanic standards of artillery fire 
that military architects and engineers 
simply discarded the thought of an 
evolution of fortress types and set to 
work to build a new defence on the 
basis of new and puzzling necessities. 

The fortifications at any of the great 
European centres which have come 
to attention during the present cam- 
paign are of complex forms and con- 
tain everv device <vhich has been 

proved by practical warfare. The 
forts, properly speaking, have a cer- 
tain uniformity and, while not erected 
by the same engineers, were planned 
to offset the same dangers and to 
neutralize offensive instruments of 
known destructive power. 

The Forts of Tradition Were Built 

Above Ground; But the Forts 

of To-day Are Dug 

First of all, the old notion that 
height and ugliness of walls are a factor 
in resistance has given way to a theory 
of quite an opposite character. The 
up-to-date fort of France, Belgium 
and Germany is actually the most 
inconspicuous feature of the landscape. 
Excavation takes the place of height. 
There are no "parapets," no "grinning 
cannon," no flag poles. When a mam- 
moth gun is fired, the spurt of powder 
is invisible; the gun itself never leaves 
the darkness of a casemate; the gun- 
ners and ammunition carriers and 
officers carry out their duties from the 
depths of a cave — indeed in construc- 
tion, equipment and operation there 
is no possible analogy with the fortress 
of tradition. 

The steel-riveted walls of stone, once 
the hope and salvation of the be- 
leaguered, are to-day merely supple- 
mentary to other and more efficient 
materials, such as banks of earth, 
concrete and nickel amalgam. No 
longer are large military bodies station- 
ed within the walls, a half company 
sufficing for the average redoubt. 
Lines of cannon poking their noses 
above the barriers are out-of-date al- 
most as bows and arrows. What sent 
them into limbo was the introduction 
of smokeless powder in 1890, since 
when the discharge of guns has no 
longer been accompanied by the tell- 
tale puff of smoke. This, in turn led 
to the shielding of artillery from obser- 
vation, and so we find the disappear- 
ing gun adopted by all countries. 

A common design of modern fort- 
ress, of which those at Antwerp, Liege, 
or along the French border are vari- 
iations, places a girdle of infantry 
redoubts at from four to six miles from 
the edge of the defended centre and at 
intervals of from one to two and a half 
miles apart. According to the size of 
the redoubt the defending force con- 
sists (jf from half a company to half a 
battalion. Between redoubts are 
lined up howitzers and machine guns 
at spots affording the maximum of 
natural protection or gi\ing facilities 
for artificial barriers. Direct firing 
fortress guns are also employed to 
reinforce the howitzer fire. The trans- 
Jjort of ammunition along an extended 


line of fortifications is, naturally, a 
vital question, and has been sometimes 
solved by building a trench railway 
that makes a circuit of the batteries. 
It will be seen that the scheme of 
modern military science is to halt an 
enemy's advance with gun fire rather 
than with moats and unscaleable walls, 
as was once the case. To silence the 
guns means the capture of the fortress 
almost as easily as walking into a 
department store. 

^ m m 

Why the Defenders of Liege Were 

Able to Withstand the Kaiser 

for Many Days 

How the defenders at Liege and 
Verdun were able to withstand the 
German attack was indicated in de- 
spatches in the most fragmentary and 
vague fashion. When it is stated that 
instead of storming a set of stone 
barriers, as in the Franco-Prussian and 
earlier wars, the Kaiser's hosts found 
themselves face to face with a chain of 
covered emplacements or holes in the 
ground from which belched a thousand 
mouths of fire, and against which their 
ordinary artillery had small oppor- 
tunity to land a fatal shot, the German 
delay was not so surprising. Before 
Liege lay a countryside swept clear of 
trees, buildings, and shrubbery that 
could protect an invading force from 
the full fury of the guns. The for; 
tresses themselves were practically 
buried in the earth, with only slight 
projections where stood the gun and 


observation towers. These towers 
were built over with thick steel cupolas, 
so strong as to ricochet the best- 
aimed shot. About the emplacement 
was massed thirty feet of masonry and 
iron with three feet or more of earth, 
and against such barriers the blasts of 
any but the Kaiser's greatest artillery 
had little immediate effect. The even- 
tual success of the forty-two-centimetre 
guns invented by the Krupp factory 
is now a matter of history. Until such 
gigantic engines entered the struggle 
however, Liege and Namur more than 
justified the anticipations of their 


Has the Forty-two-Centimetre Krupp 
Sounded the Death-knell of the 
Fortress Builder's Long- 
studied Art ? 

What sizes or designs of guns were 
mounted at Verdun or other points 
of fiercest conflict is, of course, hardly 
a matter of common information. 
Similar European fortresses, however, 
and many of the excellent structures 
along the United States seacoast con- 
tain mortars 13 feet long, 15 tons in 
weight, requiring 125 pounds of max- 
imite (three times as powerful as gun- 
powder) to toss a projectile a distance 
of three miles. The modern 12-inch 
rifle, a frequent equipment, is 40 feet 
long, weighs 50 tons, and delivers a 
thousand pound shell for which it needs 
520 pounds of powder. 

-A ': 








% ' 



IF' " ' — T^fti^T^^^ "^j^M 

Copyright International News Service 




This department is under the direction of " Kit " who under this familiar pen 
name has endeared herself to Canadian women from Belle Isle to Victoria. Every 
month she will contribute sparkling bits of gossip, news and sidelights on life as 
seen through a woman's eyes. 

L-JERE is 1915— "the yearof trouble," 
^ ^ for which the old chap who has just 
given up the ghost was forerunner or 
precursor. On goes the war, the hor- 
rible world-war, until we have become 
half used to reading terrible news of 
atrocious, of inhuman suffering. Time 
and again in imagination, in odd flashes 
of memory, of what might well seem 
but a picture of war, or a sham war 
that occurred years ago in Cuba, one 
has seen the whole horror of what 
happens in the trenches in Europe, of 
lonely deaths deep in the rich grain 
fields and little woods; of maniac 
women and old men mumbling among 
the ruins of their homes, of lost children 
crying for lost mothers. We have 
been full fed with war and all it's 
brutalities and atrocities, yet we are 
beginning a New Year with it. And 
the end ! Who may tell it If, as is 
predicted, all nations will take a hand 
in it, may we not be fast approaching 
the last Battle, that of Armageddon ? 
Meantime the best way is to Mark 
Tapley through it, and that is exactly 
what Tommy A. is doing. 


IN no sense irreverently or vulgarly 
^ do we call the splendid little man 
who died in France in the early weeks 
of November "Bobs," but rather with 
a big love filling the heart. It was the 
good fortune of the Pedlar to have 
had, once in life, a hand-shake from 
Britain's biggest Empire-builder, and 
to see him invested with the cloak or 
insignia of Saint Patrick in Dublin 
Castle in 1897 in Company with 
H. R. H. the Duke of York, now our 
own King George, who, as he will 
never see this, will, I take it, forgive 
our placing his name after that of 
Britain's dead hero. 

What a day that was ! Fine and 

gay and sunshiny, the streets lined 
with people, important personages in 
levee dress and gold lace, popping in 
and out of carriages and the flower of 
Irish beauty, — believe me it is the 
real thing, ("Bravo !"from the man of 
the Crossroads who insists on reading 
over my shoulder) ready to do honor 
to St. Patrick, the Duke, and "Water- 
ford Bobs." Irishwomen as a rule 
are tall and graceful and wear their 
clothes well, and here, on every side, 
one saw the piquant combination of 
deep blue eyes and black hair, the 
blonde aux yeux noirs," or the red- 
headed western girls with the dark 
eyes of their Spanish pirate forbears. 
No paint, or powder there and for 
why should there be since the fairy 
gift to an Irish colleen is a cheek like 
the rose and a skin like "new milk." 


\/fY word ! I can see as I write the 
great Hall of Saint Patrick, the 
sun streaming through the lofty win- 
dows, the banners of the Knights hang- 
ing in grand array, the prettiest girls 
in the world crowding the beautiful 
room and — well — just as fine men as 
went the other day from Valcartier to 
Salisbury Plain, waiting with eager- 
ness the events which presently began 
with the solitary call of the bugler. 
Then the drums beat, — not as now — 
not with the death thrill in them, but 
gay and loud and jauntily, till the 
band drowned them with the Anthem 
of Empire. Silence, then six trum- 
peters announced with a blare of 
glorious noise the approach of Royalty. 
First came the investiture of the 
Duke of York, our present King, and 
then, what one Irishwoman from 
overseas was awaiting with racing- 
heart^ — Bobs ! One happened to be 
standing among a group of Lord 

Roberts' Irish relatives, and there were 
reasons that brought about a con- 
versation, since one happened to be 
slightly acquainted with one or two 
of them. And what excitement and 
with what a dear, soft "brogue" did 
a lady cousin of his chatter about 
him, their great, big, wonderful little 
man ! Silence again as uprose the 
the Grand Master to proclaim Her 
Majesty's wish regarding Lord Roberts 
who, under the title of "The Right 
Honorable and Most Noble Lord Sir 
Frederick Sleigh, Baron Roberts of 
Kandahar in Afghanistan and of the 
City of Waterford in the Peerage of 
the United Kingdom, one of Her 
Majesty's Most Honorable Privy 
Council in Ireland, a Baronet of the 
United Kingdom, Knight Grand Cross 
of the Most Honorable Order of the 
Bath, Knight Grand Commander of 
the Most Eminent Order of the Indian 
PLmpire, Victoria Cross, a Field-Mar- 
shal in the Army, Commander of the 
Forces in Ireland, Mast of the Royal 
Hospital of Kilmainham," was pre- 
sently fetched like a bad little boy 
from behind the door and brought in 
between two elders for punishment. 
He looked so little and so manly in 
his trailing blue cloak, and yet so big 
and brave and sturdy. And the cousin ' 
was crazy, dear soul, with joy and 
pride and she told us he was to take 
tea with them somewhere in the 
Rothmines* Road and that "ever so 
many people were coming to be pre- 
sented to him," just to hold that 
valiant hand for a moment and look 
into the clearest blue eye that ever 
shone in a man's head. In a moment 
it was all over. Bobs in his blue 
cloak which seemed to extinguish him 
for the moment trailed down the hall. 
His blue banner swished three tirnes 
as he made the round of the Chapter, 
then the band crashed, the trumpets 
sounded, the drums beat a merry tan- 
ta-ra-tan-ta-ra ! and the brilliant 
assemblage drifted to the streets where 
Erin's tears were falling. She is al- j 
ways laughing uproariously, or weep- I] 
ing, my beloved Eire. There was a 
great shouting for carriages and ancient 
gold-laced personages, whose broug- 
hams had got lost somehow, might be 
seen gathering up their red coat-tails 
and scurrying to shelter along with 
many a lace petticoat. 

And what pretty ankles the Dublin 
girls have ! "Faith an' you never | 
said a truer word than that last," says 
the crusthore over my shoulder. And 
now, as Kipling says, "Three Hundred 
miles of cannon spoke when the Master- 
Gunner died." 

But "Bobs" is not dead. Like Wel- 
lington, Drake, Nelson, and the rest 
of a gallant company, "Bobs" is im- 
mortal ! 

TT seems desirable that there should 
■*■ be some concensus of opinion with 
regard to the pronunciation of words 
in ordinary use. There is no good 
reason for diversity, and there is much 
to be said for uniformity. I am speak- 
ing now of course of what may be call- 
led ordinary newspaper English, and 
that, I take it, is the ordinary language 
of most of the English speaking races. 
I shall be met at once by the assertion 
that the 170 odd millions who read 
newspapers printed in English do not 
all pronounce what they read in the 
same way. Let a Scotchman or a 
Welshman or an Irishman or an Ameri- 
can start to read out the war news to 
his wife and they will each read it 
rather differently. Still, there are 
some words on which all are more or 
less agreed. There is that word, for 
instance, that has been of late on 
everybody's lips — the word "allies." 
People will put the accent on the first 
syllable of it, notwithstanding that by 
an overwhelming majority British 
philologists have determined that it 
should be on the second. Not only 
the philologists but the rank and file 
of the Empire — that rank and file 
which in these days is being welded 
together as never before in the dread 
fires of war — these have chosen always 
to accent "allies" in the same way as 
"alive" or "alone," viz., on the second 
syllable. It is not in accordance with 
British Empire usage to say "dee-feet," 
or "ree-cess," or "add-ress." In each 
of these words the accent should be 
on the last syllable. I know that in 
some dictionaries — notably in Web- 
ster's — we are frequently given two 
pronunciations either of which we may 
use. But for my part I would rather 
have a dictionary that does not trim 
in this way and try to run with the 
hare and the hound at the same time. 
I like a dictionary that gives you just 
one pronunciation and sticks to it. 
This is perhaps a small matter to 
mention in the face of the terrible 
events that are making life a continuous 
atmosphere of catastrophe. But for 
people with any sort of an ear for the 
niceties of language a mispronuncia- 
tion of that ennobled word "allies" is 
as bad as a discord in music. 


D Y the way, speaking of music, does 
anybody in these days remember 
"The Battle of Prague," an instru- 
mental piece that our grandmothers 
used to play on the piano with great 

Many an early Victorian girl in 
white muslin, ringlets, and hoops, sat 
down at the piano at an "evening 
party" such as they used to have in 
those days, and felt that now she 
would have an opportunity of showing 


what she could do. How diligently 
she had practised that piece at her 
boarding school, and even since her 
education was "finished," to the great 
admiration of her parents. The young 
gentleman who begged the privilege 
of turning over the pages of her music 
was attired in a long-tailed coat, tight- 
fitting trousers, an embroidered waist- 
coat, and a white or black stock, so 
high that he could scarcely look over 
it. How agitated they both were ! 
How Miss Victoria felt her heart go 
thump as she struck the first full, 
thrilling cords ! By the end of the 
second page, the young man's hand 
trembled with sympathetic excitement. 
This was indeed a vivid representa- 
tion of war. For the "Battle of 
Prague" was nothing if not descriptive. 
It did not leave you to your imagina- 
tion either, for scattered over the 
staves there were words that told you 
when it was a "charge of cavalry," the 
"bringing up of artillery," or the 
"cries of the wounded," that were being 
portrayed. It frequently settled the 
business of any susceptible young man 
who happened to be turning over the 
fair musician's pages. If he did not 
propose the same evening, he at any 
rate uttered such words of abject 
admiration as made Miss Early Vic- 
toria's innocent maiden cheek "mantle" 
with ingenuous blushes. In those days 
maidens' cheeks always "mantled." 
If they didn't "mantle" they were 
"suffused." Dear old days ! 


r\F course you have put down, or is 
it "put up" your pickles: but a 
belated Pedlar has left this task to 
the last. Forgive my mention of it, 
but war or no war, pickles must be 
made. Many a woman would struggle 
to mate her pickles even though she 
felt she would soon have to take to her 
bed for the last time. Hence the 
smell of the boiling vinegar and spices, 
dear to the nostrils of the feminine 
head of the household if she has been 
brought up that way. Of course she 
may be above pickles. Her mind may 
dwell on higher things, such as Brown- 
ing or Maeterlinck. Or she may be of 
the haughty and languid variety suit- 
able for sitting back in an auto and 
looking superior. Not for her any- 
thing so vulgar as the tender and crisp 
pickled onions or the celery piccalilli. 
But the thoroughbred housewife does 
not despise those same comestibles, 
tearful though the job of peeling onions 
may be. Yea, she sliceth the purple 
cabbage with hearty vigour, and is 
friendly to the chow-chow that is made 
when the tomato is green, not to men- 
tion the small and succulent cucumber. 
Nor will she fail to possess many a 
special recipe of her own for the mak- 
ing of these delectable condiments. 


Sometimes she is rather jealous and 
exclusive about these same recipes, 
and is chary of giving them even to her 
nearest and dearest friends. They are- 
"her" pickles and she has got a name^ 
for them. She feels that her pickles- 
form one of her assets. Why shoulcf 
she share her knowledge and experi- 
ence with every troUoping jade that 
happens to come along ? Let her get 
her own recipes. 


(^LEANING house late in the Au- 
tumn, one spent days poking about 
the lumber in the big attic. It is a 
task we love. All the memories of all 
the years seemed to be stored in the 
garret. Here are the trunks that have 
travelled the world over. The old 
Elephant, drooping and gray, which 
has been thro' "wars alarums;" the 
newer basket trunk which has carried 
a trousseau and the crape of mourning. 
The little cabin boxes which have 
accompanied you on many a sea trip, 
and have seen you in all the discom- 
fiture of sea-sickness — the suit cases, 
kit bags, bonnet boxes that carried 
your necessities and your fineries, here 
they are covered with luggage labels: 
reminders every one of a life of travel, 
adventure and romance now fallen 
into the quiet of the grey years, but 
once so vibrant with joy, so bitter with 
grief — so golden, so gay ! And rooting 
among forgotten things one came upon 
the hat worn through the Cuban war, 
a frightful piece of head-gear with 
which we once terrified the staid young 
clerk who officiated behind the desk at 
the uptown New York hotel where we 
registered the day of landing back into 
what we call "civilization." 

Not for dollars would we part with 
the little old ruin that fell out of a 
bandbox yesterday. Sitting on the 
dusty floor with the crumpled bit of 
straw and ribbon, the years unfolded 
solemnly, the great gates of the Past 
opened, and we slipped in to wander 
awhile up and down the never-to-be 
forgotten ways where we gathered the 
roses and the rue. Crushed is the 
crown; the brim is warped into sar- 
castic curves, the bow, save the mark ! 
is flattened in a stale and dusty pan- 
cake sort of way. And yet 

One remembers the day it was 
bought in a little milliner's shop in 
Key West, and the day we first wore 
it — or rather the night. It was when 
the first wounded came back from 
Cuba. We saw in inward vision the 
hopeless looking ship — the torchlight, 
the crippled lads — the dead — the lone- 
ly, awful dead. We remembered that 
night the Red Cross Yacht put out 
with us on board for Santiago trying 
to Cross the Gulf in a Long Island 
pleasure craft ; the tooting of the press 
boats the deep voices of 


the Monitors bidding us G<k1 speed ! 
and outside — with the harl>our mined 
— the wreck — the lying in the pit of 
the gray sea until the dawn ! 

They were playing Tannhauser on 
the flagships, little clown hat, the 
night you and I sailed into Guan- 
tanamo Bay; and the gray old hulks 
of Ceavera, we saw them too, and San 
Juan, and "Bucky" O'Neill you re- 
member, shot in the mouth and spin- 
ning like a top before he fell— And 
coming home ! the hurricane that 
battered you, little Bowery hat, the 
pest ship, the mountainous, gray, 
lonely seas, the dying and dead men 
. . . . And then to be laughed 
at in the New York hotel until we told 
the men reading their papers and using 
their toothpicks in the hotel rotunda 
that we were just back from the war 

and — and it was then I 

think we broke down, and you didn't 
shade eyes that were weeping when 
the men stood up and lifted their hats. 
Go back into your crazy bandbox — 
little old army hat — you and I have 
been through too much together not 
to keep together now to the end. 


T^HE world has been drenched in 
^ blood by land and sea — When will 
the command "Halt !" ring down the 
lines ? Unfortunate women of the 
warring nations pay war's toll with 
their hearts. It is apprehended that 
the Kaiser may take his own life in 
the hour of overwhelming defeat which 
is most certainly approaching. It 
requires strength of character for a 
sane human being deliberately to take 
his own life. The Kaiser can cheer- 
fully sacrifice the lives of his people — 
even of boys of fifteen. But note how 
careful he is to have his own person 
fully protected ? The "blonde beast" 
is surely large within this thing which 
masquerades in human garb. 


PVERYBODY is talking Nietzsche 
^ and Bernhardi, when they ought 
to be reading and quoting from the 
Bible of Germany which was written, 
by the way, by an Englishman, or 
Britisher rather, who can trace his 
ancestry back on one side to English 
parentage for a couple of hundred 
years, and on the other to good Scots 
blood, by name Houston Stewart 
Chamberlain. This hater of his own 
race and all pertaining to it is the man 
who is responsible for the "Kultur" 
that is smashing nations and making 
widows and orphans by the million. 
His book "The Foundations of the 
Nineteenth Century," written twenty 
years ago and only recently trans- 
lated by Lord Reresdale, has been the 
Bible of Germany. The present gene- 
ration has been brought up on it. 


The Kaiser presented a copy to every 
school in Germany. Nietzsche's so- 
called "philosophy" is but a book of 
fairy tales compared to the teaching 
of German conceit and vanity con- 
tained in the volume written by a 
traitor to his race and his blood. 
Nietzsche, who spent the last five 
years of his life walking like a beast on 
all fours, and eating off the floor — was 
a brainless ass, alongside the astute 
Anglo-Scot who has lived from his 
childhood in Germany and preache<l 
the immeasurable superiority of the 
German in every phase of human 
activity. He is a man of vivid men- 
tality, and wide learning, yet he has 
taught only contemptuous arrogance, 
insane vanity, and Super-manism to 
the foolish Germans. Forget Niet- 
zsche, and the rest. Study the Brit- 
isher, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, 
and you will find the key to present 
day German Kultur. Culture ! let us 
never use the word again. It hurts 
the ear. 


A dwarfish thing of steel and fire, 

My iron nerves obey ^ 

The bidding of my crafty sire. 

Who drew me out of clay, » 

And sent me forth, on paths untrod. 

To slap his puny clan; 
A slave of hell, a scourge of God — 

For I was made by Man. 

When foul fog-curtains droop and meet 

Athwart an oily sea; 
My rhythmic pulse begins to beat; 

'Tis hunting time for me. 
A breathing swell is hardly seen 

To stir the emerald deep; 
As through that ocean-jungle green 

I, velvet-footed, creep. 

-And lo ! my prey, a palace reared 

Above an arsenal, 
By lightning's viewless finger steered. 

Comes on — majestical. 
The mists before her bows dispart; 

And 'neath that Traitor's Gate, 
The royal vessel, high of heart. 

Sweeps, queen-like, to her fate. 

Too confident of strength to heed 

The menacing faint sound, 
As from their leash, like bloodhounds freed, 

The snub torpedoes bound; 
She does not note them quartering wide, 

Nor guess what lip is this, 
That presses on her stately side 

Its biting Judas kiss; 

Till with a roar that frights the stars, 

Her cracking timbers rend; 
And lurid smoke and flaming spars 

In one red storm ascend; ' 
Whose booming thunder drowns the cries 

Of myriad souls in pain. 
Where tossed on turbid waters lies 

My quarry, torn in twain. 

Awhile I watch her, half in fear; 

There needs no second blow; 
A full-gorged lynx that leaves the deer. 

My hunger filled — I go. 
The stricken monarch may not mark 

What foe her trust betrayed. 
For swiftly as it came, the bark 

Slinks back into the shade. 

A will mart strong than sttel or fire 

Controls my tigerisli play 
My crafty, hundred-handed sire 

Who dragged me forth from clay. 
He, too, claims kindred with the clod. 

Through some diviner plan. 
Half imp of hell, half child of Cod, 

The murder-angel- Man." 


ALL our lady friends are talking 
economy these days. "You know, 
the war, my dear !" some of them say in 
a vague sort of way. "We really must 
economize." One dear soul is econ- 
omizing on sugar. She buys brown 
now, instead of while sugar, and then 
she went wild over a sale that occurred 
in her town the other day. She bought 
piles of useless remnants, mouse traps 
by the half dozen because they were 
only two cents apiece, cheap gloves — 
that shocking economy !— by the pack- 
age, and extraordinary kitchen utensils 
she would never need. Next day she 
groaned over the price of starch, and 
declared that her grocer who used to 
give her three of something for a 
quarter, now gives only two. 

Most people have what they call 
their pet economy. Many men de- 
pend entirely on charity for their 
matches. You will see a man address 
another, a complete stranger, and ask 
him for a "light." They have every- 
thing else ready for their smoke, but 
depend on the benevolence of the 
public for their matches. Others are 
bootlace mad. They take short views 
of life when it comes to bootlaces, 
seeming to regard such necessities a 
sort of deadly extravagance. The>' 
hang on to a bootlace until it grows 
gray and snarls itself up in knots of 
vexation at working overtime. In a 
moment of temper it snaps, and our 
economist expends time, labor, breath 
and expletives knotting the broken 
ends together and so saving his penny. 

We know women who regularly 
economize on the collection plate in 
church. They are absorbed in prayer 
when it makes its dismal little round. 
Such a one will pay a fancy price for 
her winter hat, but she will economize 
on the wretched beggar who asks a 
coin for a meal or a drink — yes, a 
drink — at her door. It is sometimes 
charity to give a cold and trembling 
wretch a coin though you know he will 
spend it on a glass of beer. And we 
refuse, not because we are particularly 
good, but to make the wretched man's 
need the necessity for our economy. 

Well, well, Lloyd George has put a 
penny tax on a pint of beer for the 
man, and three pence on a pound of 
tea for the woman — and presently no 
doubt, our own fatlierly Government 
will do likewise with ourselves — all to 
buy a world-peace which would never 
have been disturbed had not a crippled 
madman flung his crown into the ring. 



QOME poets splash their souls on 
leagues of sky. They write heart's 
blood stuff, vivid, often painful, incom- 
plete at best — greatest, perhaps, when 
least finished. They live and write 
simultaneously, and the result is sel- 
dom drawn to scale or subjected to 
the rules of art and the size o' the 
frame. Other poets are miniature 
painters, makers of careful, exquisite, 
unforgettable little pictures, finished 
to the last sunkiss on the least curl. 

That's the kind of poe ry that you 
find in Louis How's slender volume, 
"Barricades" (Sherman, French & 
Company, Boston). Read it when 
you're quiet, when you have a drowsy 
summer-sunshine feeling, or when the 
snap of the pine log lulls your mind 
into restful contemplation of life's 
finished minutenesses. You can taste 
each separate word. You can pick 
them up, jewel-like, one after the other, 
on their cord of melody. You can let 
them purl themselves through the 
remotenesses of your brain. Then 
you can let them all slip back again 
into one perfect, charming whole, 
whose patiently-forged workmanship 
hides itself in its own completeness. 
This is particularly true of the sonnets, 
whose form demands exact handling 
before everything. Take this one: 

A little cottage on the ocean shore, 

Where we were happy, where we were alone. 

At night the wind might wail, the water 

But we within were happy as before. 
On man and nature too we shut the door, 

Had no companion.ship beyond our own. 

How far away the forms of fear were flown! 

How quiet hope! We wanted nothing more. 
Our rnusing fancies flickered with the fire, 

While we were sitting silent, hand in hand. . 

And as a flame flares up ancl disappears. 
It all is ashes now. Ancl my desire 

<^ioes turning back and listens on the strand 

The ocean murmurs louder than the years. 

It has always been my idea that the 
O. Henry method of concluding a story 
on the top note, ouglit to apply to 
verse also. This is strikingly carried 
out in Mr. How's work. Almost invar- 

iably the last line carries the thrill. 
Watch for it in the lyric "The King of 
the Golden Mountain": 

The King of the Golden Mountain 

Is very weak and grey, 
He sits by the garden fountain 

And watches the sunlit spray. 

He hears in the water-splashes 

The sounds of lusty noise, 
And under his lowered lashes 

Are visions of vanished joys. 

The prince, in a heat from hawking. 

Draws near with wary tread, 
And troubles the peace with talking: 

He wishes the king were deadr 

In "Moonlight on the Roofs" Mr. 
How gets the deep tone of the city, a 
thing from which miniature-painting 
poets generally shrink. As the vague 
sense-picture of moonlight is the one 
he wishes to leave, rather than the 
semi-sketched night figures, he returns 
to repetition and diminuendo in his ■ 
last lines: 

No quieter the moon shines down 
Upon the country than the town. 
The passers in the streets to-night, 
Who hum of love, or peer in fright, — 
And never heed the far-off hoofs. 

The motor whizzing fast and shrill, — 
If they would look, could see the roofs 

That lie there silvery and still. 

But criminals, and homeless folk, 
And those that only just awoke 
And silent from a secret bed 
With noiseless parting kisses fled, 
Have many other thoughts to think 

Besides of moons that hang aloof 
And make the sleepy windows wink 

And scatter silver on a roof. 

And here's a little one called "Tier- 
garten," which is delicate enough to 
set in a locket and hang on a thin gold 
chain : 

The chestnuts drop their leaves of gold, 
The Sunday sunshine's nearly cold, 
An old man looks with tender eyes 
Upon a half-grown girl, an<l sighs. 

" VLZ-KSBLOCK," by H. M. Walters 
(J . M . Dent & Sons) , announces 
itself in its subtitle as the autobio- 
graphy of an automaton. It is written 


as a first-person [confession, and the 
author certainly got the character 
across. You can't really admire Wes- 
block; you can't love or look up to 
him ; you can't even pity such a com- 
pound of smugness and inadequacy. 
He is in love, but unfaithful; borrows 
money, spends it, gambles it, invests it, 
and borrows more ; he finally worms his 
way into the Civil Service by means 
of "dirty work" done for King and 
Country. Even after that he keeps 
pulling at the coattails of his friends, 
the Minister and the Senator, for ad- 
vancement to still further undeserved- 
nesses. Add that he has a frenzy for 
the stage, and wears his hair long — ■ 
you have "Wesblock.'.' 

Dear Mr. Editor: — 
T^HANKS for the privilege of appeal- 
•'• ing through your columns on behalf 
of the Hospital for Sick Children . The 
Hospital takes care of sick and de- 
formed children, not only in Toronto, 
but in the Province, outside of the city. 
This coming year, of all the years in 
the Hospital's history, has a more seri- 
ous outlook, as regards funds for main- 
tenance, than any year that has passed 
its calendar. 

So many calls are being made on the 
purses of the generous people of To- 
ronto and Ontario, to help the soldiers 
of the Empire, that as I make my daily 
rounds through the wards of the Hos- 
pital, and see the suffering children in 
our cots and beds, the thought strikes 
me as to whether the people will as of 
old, with all the demands made upon 
them, answer our appeal and help to 
maintain the institution that is fighting 
in the never-ending battle with disease 
and death, in its endeavor to save the 
stricken little ones in the child-life of 

Last year there were 394 in-patients 
from 210 places outside of Toronto, and 
in the past twenty years there have 
been 7,000 from places in the Province 
other than Toronto. 

It costs us $2.34 per patient per day 
for maintenance. The municipalities 
pay for patients $1.00 per patient per 
day; the Government allows 20 cents 
per patient per day; so, deducting 
$1.20 from $2.34, it leaveg the Hospital 
with $1.14 to pay out of subscriptions 
it receives from the people of Toronto 
and the Province. The shortage last 
year ran to $18,000. 

Since 1880 about 1,000 cases of club 
feet, bow legs and knock knees have 
been treated, and of these 900 had per- 
fect correction. Nearly all these were 
from different parts of the Province 
outside of the City of Toronto. 

Remember that every year is a war 
year with the Hospital; every day is 
a day of battle; every minute the Hos- 


pital nee<is money, not for its own sake, 
but for the children's sake. The Hos- 
pital is the battleground where the 
Armies of Life have grappled with the 
Hosts of Death, and the life or death 
of thousands of little children is the 
issue that is settled in that war. Will 
you let the Hospital be driven from 
the field of its battle to save the lives 
of little children for the lack of money 
you can give and never miss? 

Every dollar may prove itself a 
dreadnought in the battle against 
death, a flagship in the fleet that fights 
for the lives of little children. 

Remember that the door of tljie Hos- 
pital's mercy is the door of hope, and 
your dollar, kind reader, may be the 
icey that opens the door for somebody's 

Will you send a dollar, or more, if 
you can, to Douglas Davidson, Secre- 
tary-Treasurer, or 


Chairman of the Board of Trustees, 


"A BOOK of verses underneath the 
bough" is to-day an impossi'oil- 
ity. We don't have the boughs close 
up under the Stock Exchange for one 
thing, and for another, modern poetry 
is apt to be so vitally gripping that it 
and a doze in the shade wouldn't go 

Personally, I've carried Arthur 
Stringer's "Open Water" (John Lane 
and Co.), through nearly a week of 
strap-hanging, lunch-counter-eating 
days before I've been content to leave 
it at horne. And the verse that Can get 
you, clear down to the last pulse of your 
heart, when you're in the act of order- 
ing Oyster Stew, is surely some poetry. 
Maybe Mr. Stringer won't like this 
low-brow tribute. But I have hopes 
that he will, because I somehow think 
that he'd rather write for the 8.30 a.m. 
crowd that really does things — even if 
it only types — than for the other kind 
that lounges down at noon. 

In his foreword, the author defends 
his drifting away from all rhyme, and 
even rhythm in the accepted sense, on 
the ground that "verse, in the nature 
of things, has become less epic and 
racial, and more lyric and personal," 
and that therefore, "the larger utter- 
ance of blank verse" is equally to be 
decried with " the jingling sounds of like 
endings." Poetry is not "an intel- 
lectual exercise, but the immortal soul 
of perplexed mortality seeking expres- 
sion," and its primary function is 
"both to intellectualize sensation and 
to elucidate emotional experience." 

Rhythm or no rhythm, Mr. Stringer's 
verse undoubtedly lives up to his own 
definition. The only criticism to be 
made, it seems to me, is that, if he has 
any sort of philosophy of life other than 


that we are to be ground between the 
millstones of circumstance and had best 
take it uncomplainingly, he gives us no 
glimpse of it. Mr. Stringer's world 
holds love and pity and terror, the 
scarlet and black of tragedy, the hot 
gold of passion, but nowhere does he 
give us the far, faint white light of hope 
beyond it all. Personally, if I believed 
his philosophy, I couldn't read his 
poems. Since I have my own creed, I 
can appreciate, undisturbed, the splen- 
did, glowing, sobbing emotion-sketches 
that he flings out to me. 

Here's the kernel of the book and the 
best poem in it: 


A rind of light hangs low- 
On the rim of the world: 
A sound of feet disturbs 
The quiet of the cell 
Where a rope and a beam looms high 
At the end of the yard. 

But in the dusk 

Of that walled yard waits a woman : 

And as the thing from its cell, 

Still guarded and chained and boXind, 

Crosses that little space, 

Silent, for ten brief steps, 

A. woman hangs on his neck. 

And that walk from a cell to a sleep 

Is known as Life, 

And those ten dark steps 

Of tangled rapture and tears 

Men still call Love. 

Doing a Daniel 

Continued from page 160. 

"By the time we gets to Kokomo, 
we're Demon and Pythias. Romeo and 
Jooliet was enemies compared to us, 
and Hamlet and Ophelia hated each 
other's signatures on a promissory 
note. Estelle couldn't spare me long 
enough even to give me time to get a 
drink, and I had to have all my meals 
brought into the theayter to me. 

"I had to swear ofT smoking com- 
plete, except when there wasn't no one 
around; for I couldn't even go outside 
the stage door for a cigarette but what 
Estelle would be whooping and howling 
and yowling and yelping so that people 
would come running from every which 
way; and once the Society for the 
Invention of Cruelty to Animals got 
after us; and I had to put my head in 
Estelle's mouth and show the places 
where his hair was coming out from 
high feeding to prOve that I wasn't 
maltreating him. 

"He loved me so that we could hard- 
ly get him to stay on the stage while 
the leading lady was saving her lover 
from him. The only way we could 
work it at all was for me to stay with 
him until the last minute and then to 
stand out as far in the wings as I dared 
and whisper to him. And even then 
the whole scene had to be played in 

the time it took Estelle to turn around 
and make his exit. 

"One night the manager come 
around and he was sore. 

" 'Now, look a' here,' he says to me. 
This thing has gotter quit. It's get- 
ing worse 'n worse all the time. Hav- 
ing to play that whole dam' scene in 
seventeen seconds make it lose all its 
thrilling impressiveness. Why, the 
leading lady has to come on like the 
driver of Chemical A, and if she misses 
the first swipe she makes at them 
bonds, the lion's got his back turned 
and is on his way home. It won't do. 

" 'Now,' " he goes on, 'I want you to 
keep out oi the way to-night after 
you've led nim onto the stage. Duck 
quick when he ain't looking and maybe 
he'll be busy thinking things over long 
enough to let us get through the scene 

"Well, I done what he told me to. 
And that night, before even the lead- 
ing lady could reach the leading man, 
Estelle had turned around and, hear- 
ing my footsteps, had tried to climb 
through the back drop curtain, with 
the result that he tore it down and 
thereby exposed to the gaze of the 
audience a full view of Estelle kissing 
me like we'd been just reyoonited 
after years of separation, the manager 
cussing a blue streak and the company 
and stage hands laffing and slapping 
their legs fit to kill. It was the most 
appreciated scene we ever give; but it 
didn't seem to make no hit with the 
management. They cancelled us, and 
we had to lay off the rest of the week. 

"By the time we opens in the next 
burg, this brainy manager of oum has 
framed up a new scheme. 

" 'I'll lead him on myself to-night,' 
he says. 'You can duck right after 
the second act. Then we'll let him 
hunt all around until he knows you 
ain't there, and maybe he'll be con- 
tented to do the scene right. Of 
course he'll howl and all that; but 
that'll only lend extry color to the 

" 'All right,' I says, though I was 
mighty dubious about the lustre of his 
idea. 'You're the doctor.' 

"I done what he told me to. Right 
after the curtain had fell on the secon-" 
act, I beat it out the stage door. 

"I could hear Estelle already yell- 
ling and yowling and wauling fit to 
make a siren whistle ashamed of itself, 
and my heart ached for him in his 
loneliness. But I wouldn't go back. 
'Orders is orders,' I says, and I strolled 
around to the front of the house. 

" 'What's the matter in there ?' asks 
the man on the door, as, I waltzes into 
the lobby. 'That dam,' animated 
door-mat you've got in behind is tear- 
ing it off so the audience is frightened 
to death. Three women has fainted; 
already and the people is going out 



faster 'n I ever seen 'em come in in my 
life. Look a' there.' 

"I looked. Seventeen people was 

all at once trying to get out through a 

loor that was originally intended to ac- 

mmodate a thin guy going sideways. 

'I guess I better go inside,' I says. 

'I guess you'd better,' says the 

loorman. 'There ought to be at least 

le person in there for the actors to 

lay to.' 

By violent efforts I manages to get 
iside and work my way half-way 
[own a side aisle, so's to be out of the 
I could hear 'em on the stage set- 
ting scenery at a rate fit to bust the 
speed ordinances into chunks; and I 
knowed the manager had saw how 
things was going, but was ashamed to 
admit that his idea was a frost, and 
so was trying to get the scene over 
with and reyoonite me and Estelle 
before the audience had went home. 

"The curtain rung up in a jifify; and 
of course the people that was still in 
the theayter turned to look. Poor 
Estelle was nosing around the stage, 
dragging the mountain after him, and 
aiming his one good eye this way and 
that in a frantic effort to find me, and 
all the while letting out roars and yowls 
and yips and yells that made the 
photograph frames in the lobby rattle. 
"He only had one good eye. But 
that one was certainly a peach. In 
less than a minute he had spotted me; 
and with one delighted, joyous beller 
of pure happiness, he leaps over the 
footlights, still towing the mountain 
after him, and begins to spraddle his 
way jubilantly across the backs of the 
• seats to the spot where I'm standing. 
"Of course, for what was left of the 
audience, that was a-plenty, and then 
some. . They stood not on the order 
of their going. They just went. How 
they done it is too many for me. The 
light people climbed over the heavy 
ones, and the thin people crawled under 
the fat ones. Winders or doors, it 
was all the same to them. I couldn't 
tell you any more about it to save my 
life. All I know is that in less 'n 

Kirty seconds me and Estelle is stand- 
j alone in that vast ampitheayter, 
tening to the manager say soothingly 
)m the stage: 

" 'It's all right, ladies and gents. 
They is really no cause for alarm, I 
ashore you. It's all right, ladies and 
gents.' And when at last he reelizes 
that it's only me and Estelle he's talk- 
ing to, he says, kind of helpless and 
feeble-like, 'Well, wha' d' yer know 
about that !' and tries to walk through 
the curtain." 

The property man ceased speaking 
and thoughtfully gazed into his beer. 
"And what then ?" I queried. 
"I got me two weeks' notice," he 
returned succinctly. 

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Get Your ^1 

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We Give You 20 Years to Pay WewillB.ellyourich_l_andinWesternCan. 

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"For what ?" I demanded, in some 

"You can search me," he returned; 
and then, with the disdain and hauteur 
of the true historian, "Only the g(xxl 
l.ord knows why they do the things 
they do do in some companies. But 
they gives as a excuse that they thought 
if they got some one that Klstelle didn't 
love so much as he did me, maybe 
they could get him to stay on the stage 
long enough to let them play the 

"And Estelle," I persisted. "What 
loecame of him ?" 

The property man was gazing into 
his beer with saddened eyes. 

I reiterated my query. 

"Oh, Estelle !" he exclaimed, banish- 
ing with an effort the clinging mists of 
retrospection. "Estelle committed sui- 

"What 1" I cried. 

"Yes," he nodded sadly. "And they 
rewrote his part for a stuffed tiger." 

turned his big head slowly 

^•••»>l ■»■»■»■!■>><» 


Rescuing Mary 

Continued from page 162. 
said the Inspector, turning to Peter, 
who stood gazing down the stairs after 
them. "You aren't to see that woman 
again. She's going to a house where 
they won't allow a man inside the door. 
You've got to keep the Canadian laws. 
Understand? You wouldn't treat one 
of your own women that way, would 


"W'here's she going?" he asked, 

"It doesn't concern you where she's 
going," roared out the Inspector, whose 
voice was nearly as tired trying to 
explain the law as his heart was of 
having to enforce it. 

"But I want to send her monej'," 
replied Peter, side-stepping the spirit 
of the law with the innocence of a two- 
year-old . 

The Inspector, bereft of words, 
stalked down the stairs, and in a setting 
of ashes and garbage in the front hall, 
he unburdened his heavy soul. 

"Now, that's done. But what's the 
use. She's mad and she wants him, 
and we'll have to watch them all the 
time. And how's she to keep those 
three children and bring them up the 
way Canadian girls should be? They 
couldn't stay in this Dago hole. What 
sort of a life is it for her now? Taking 
those three to the Creche every morn- 
ing, slaving away all day, and then 
calling for them again at night, all tired 
but and going to a cold room to get her 
tea. It isn't a dog's life. Afterhaving 
it easy and comfortable here with a 
man she liked. But we can't stand for 
that kind of thing, now can we?" 



He was a different man this. Peter 
wouldn't have known him, for he had a 
Hght in his eyes that wouldn't have 

I^H^poiled a Madonna, 
^pr "We've no mother's pensions. If 

we had that, the girl would never have 
had to, come to a four-dollar-a-week job 

I^^n a Dago joint. She'd have had her 
^Town home and a chance with the babies. 
Fine babies those, weren't they? Never 
saw finer. I've one of my own at 

He shoo'ed away a dissipated grey 
cat from the potato peelings and 
started out the door, still soliloquizing. 

"But, just the same the Govern- 
ment's got to help us with these 
Macedonian boarding-houses and res- 
taurants. The Chinese are half way 
decent because they only eat in theirs, 
and they've a clean, open place, but the 
men in these holes live there all day. 
The girl is right with them all the time. 
They pass in and out and lounge 
round. They've no women of their 
own out here, but half of them have 
their wives back home. And now this 
winter, with so many girls out of work, 
and these places giving four dollars a 
week and not much to do — and their 
meals — what are we going to do?" 

A window banged, and looking up we 
saw that the yellow blinds in the room 
with the nursery paper, where Peter 
was alone, were drawn down. 

Just a week after this the Probation 
Officer met the S. and P. on the street. 

"How's Mary?" 

"Don't know," returned the Proba- 
tion Officer, whose daily diet is ser- 
pents' teeth. "She took the children 
out on Tuesday, and we haven't seen 
them since." 

Folk Songs 

Continued from page 165. 

column in our papers reserved for 
just such outpourings from "Out- 
raged," "Sarcastic" and Pro Bono 
Publico, and people generally who felt 
"kind of worsei" But, apparently, 
poets have even more scope in the 
older lands. Where Halka as a child 
saw an old woman following her 
drunken husband to his grave and 
wailing "Who will give me my whiskey 
now?" a poet would have made a song 
as a matter of course, and the jest 
might have drifted down a century or 
so. Death, because it is so natural, is 
not very terrible in the peasant view- 
point; it is so lightly regarded at times 
that one shudders a little at what 
seems callousness and irreverence. It 
enters into childish games, yet no one 
is saddened by it. The Countess 
Martinengo-Cesaresco, in "The Study 
of Folk-Songs" says: "To play at 
funerals was doubtless a very ancient 
amusement. No doubt some such 

Are you a helper 
or just a wife? 

RE you, without thinking, making 
it harder for your husband by wast- 
ing his earnings — wasting them 
down the sink? 

That's where lots of money and home 
happmess and children's chances go; and 
cleaners are often responsible. The waste- 
pipe gets what the kettle should get. And 
though you don't mean to shake money 
away, that's practically what happens — 
every time a wasteful cleaner is used. 

Be a helper — not '*ju§t a wife." 

Do your share. Save. Start right in 
saving with your cleaner now. Reach for 
Sapolio, and think of the little bit you'll 
be "ahead" each single time you clean. 

For you can't shake Sapolio into the sink work, enamel ware, kettles, knives, forks and 

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.z?^^@[La@ f 

game as the Sicilian one just de- 
scribed is alluded to in the text, ". . . 
children sitting in the markets and 
calling unto their fellows and saying, 
We have piped unto you and ye have 
not danced, we have mourned unto 
you and ye have not lamented.' " 

Halka sings gay or melancholy 
snatches as she scrubs her floors; 
songs of the bride, or lullabies, or 
ditties dealing with unrequited love. 
In her country the bride and bride- 
groom separate after the ceremony at 

the church, going to their respective 
homes and making merry until the 
evening. Then the husband calls for 
his wife, and a collection of money is 
taken up for the newly-wedded pair. 
The bride stands at the threshold of 
her mother's house and sings: 

"Mother mine, keep well — for now we two 

must part ! 
Say not that I've taken all, I pray you have 

no fears; 
Lo, upon the table I am leaving — tears ! 
While outside more tears shall fall caused by 

my sad heart." 
"O my Mary, go then; leave me quite alone. 



What Well-known English Proverbs Do These Pictures Represent ? 






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and 4) which are shown above, and 
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which will be publishedin this paper, 

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If your answer is correct we 

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The publisbeTB of Canada's greatest monthly niflgazim- are conduct- 
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Prizes are provided for everyone successfully solving the twelve Proverb Pictures. 

Every Contestant will be pleased. 

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Complete Prize List will be Mailed t« Yo«. 

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CONTINENTAL PUBLISHING CO., Limited, Publishers of " Everywoman's World," Dept. C Toronto, Canada 



Leave the flowers you used to tend — who will 

watch them grow ? 
Who will plant more in the spring, in a pretty 

row ? 
Who will water them when all the lovely buds 

are blown ?" — 
"Some one else must water them. If I un- 
happy be 
Why then should I just for flowers ever 

weep or sigh ?" 
"Who will sweep from off the walk leaves 

that on them lie ?" — 
"If my lover comes no more the dead leaves he 

won't see !" 

A wedding even in this country and 
on city streets has still a remnant of 
its old spirit of song and gayety, wit- 
ness the capture of the bride sometimes 
seen by astonished Winnipeg, pedes- 
trians; but the fun may degenerate 
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member Polish Marinka telling me 
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policeman at her wedding — but there 
are the old songs, just the same. 
Sometimes they make up new ones — 
according to Halka. She says that if 
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angry : 

"Oh, you Winnipeg fellows ! 

You think you are very high-class. 

You spend all your wages for smart clothes. 

And at the end of the week you have no money; 

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And carry water for him at a cent a pail." 

My various servants of foreign ex- 
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esting to me, leading me to the sight 
of such quaint and out-of-the-way 
customs. Marinka took me to see 
the "Blessing of the Baskets" one 
Easter-tide, when every good house- 
wife brought to church her basket of 
provisions for the great day — hard 
boiled eggs, sausage, bread, salt, cakes, 
butter, cheese, etc — to be blessed by 
the priest ; he repeated the same words 
about every quarter of an hour to new 
knots of kneeling people, and all that 
Saturday long the laden women came 
and went; yet if Marinka had not 
told me of this ceremony I should 
probably never have guessed what was 
the meaning of all the basket-laden 
women on Selkirk Avenue. 

I went to see Marinka married one 
May morning, but I missed the fete 
at her house. For weeks before the 
great day she had to sit up late at 
night learning many paragraphs of 
ritual in connection with her faith, 
and as she did not know until I told 
her that Christ was crucified as a 
malefactor on Good Friday, the 
spiritual side of her education had 
been much neglected, although she 
went to mass eyery Sunday. 

The month of May is usually chosen 
for weddings among the Polish people 
in Winnipeg; there had been three 
before ten o'clock on the day Marinka 

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was wed. Two youths, each lightly 
clasping an arm, brought her up the 
aisle, the groom being in advance, with 
the same escort of girls. Her white 
satin dress which had cost her twenty- 
five dollars, was strewn with the very 
expensive blossoms of the "meert" or 
myrtle the Polish wedding-flower, 
great sprays also resting on her veil. 
After the procession entered, the little 
gathering waited in chiil silence in the 
huge church while those to be married 
went into the basement to make their 
confession and hear mass; then the 
altar was lighted (this appeared to be 
the test of the financial position of the 
bridegroom — it cost much money), 
and after that it seemed as if the tall 
lighted candles held by Marinka and 
her husband were the only bits of 
brightness in a world of shivering 
gloom. The priest rattled through 
the ceremony and in a pell-mell of 
bridal party, bridgedroom, bride and 
rabble the church was suddenly emp- 
tied and the acolytes extinguished the 
altar radiance. I think they must do 
those things in prettier fashion in the 
old lands where there is not so much 

Mrs. Murphy 

Continued from page 176. 

"Hold on, stranger," drawled the 
Northerner. "Hold the team and take 
'em through one at a time. Now ante 

"Well, who is the mayor ?" The 
citizen slowly told him, and the new 
arrival, seeming satisfied, the North- 
ener impatiently said: 

"Well, pardner ! Are you going to 
lay down your hand ? Ask me the 

"Oh ! Isn't he the boss of this 
town ?" 

"Well, yes. He is, and then, again, 
he ain't. You see Mrs. Murphy lives 

Friend reader, let that one also 
pass. These are the opinions of to- 
day, and "Janey Canuck" believes 
that the things of to-day, be they 
opinion, books, works, land-marks, or 
monuments, should be preserved. She 
says : — • ; 

"We should file away even th^ 
things we think are trivial, for these 
little intimate private details will be 
studied l)y the generations that follow 





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with avidity and interest. The ("ana- 
dians-to-come will value them highly." 
And her writings bear out her say- 
ings. All her books depict as closely 
as possible both the manner and the 
speech of the present. She has put 
down the language of the homesteader, 
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In her forthcoming book called 
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which have appeared serially, there 
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against its invaders. It will deal with 
men and women who live hard, play 
hard and die hard. 

Mrs. Murphy is working on this 
story? now, and although questioned 
would not touch the subject. What 
the interviewer did find out about the 
new work was through a discreet 
questioning of her charming young 

Even these, like everyone else, hold 
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What Does Uncle 
Sam Say ? 

Continued from page 155. 

^Fon the very nature of things — " but 

r the head of the family then storms off 

to bed and his tidy wife follows, after 

picking Bemhardi from the floor in the 

comer and laying him on the shelf. 

Ex-President Charles W. Eliot of 
Harvard University, considered by 
many to be America's foremost man 
of letters, writing in the New York 
Times, says in part: 

"The prime source of the present 
immense disaster in Europe is the 
desire on the part of Germany for 
world-empire, with the belief that it 
is only to be obtained by force of 
arms. . . The German view of the 
worthlessness of international agree- 
ments was not a cause of the present war , 
because it was not fully evident to 
Europe, although familiar and of long 
standing in Germany; but it is potent 
reason for the continuance of the wai 
by the Allies until Germany is defeated, 
because it is plain to all the nations to 
the world except Germany, Austria- 
Hungary and Turkey at the moment ; 
that the hopes of mankind for the 
gradual development of international 
order and peace rest on the sanctity 
of contracts between nations, and on 
the development of adequate sanc- 
tions in the administration of inter- 
national law. The new doctrine of 
military necessity affronts all law, and 
is completely and hopelessly bar- 

Quite a difference in opinion between 
America's leading professor and the 
professors of the German universities, 
isn't there ? 

I don't think that ever in history 
has the United States had a warmer 
feeling for Great Britain. But it was 
not so many years ago when "twist- 
ing the Lion's tail" was a "sure bet" 
for an aspiring and perspiring American 
politician. Lord Salisbury helped in 
bringing about this change when he 
kept England steadily pro-American 
during their Spanish war. Mr. As- 
quith also aided in the good work when 
he met the life-long ambitions of the 
Irish-Americans to see their country 
granted self-government. 

Here is another reason why America 
sides with England, trivial some may 
say, but I believe Canadians will 
appreciate it: With the exception of 
a few slang expressions and little tricks 
of phraseology that occasionally cause 
minor ructions amongst individuals 
and give the paragraphers great joy, 
the American speaks the language of 
the British Empire. The Englishman 


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and American understand each other. 
Both countries use Pear's Soap, both 
shave their faces, both look upon the 
earth as consisting, like Caesar's Gaul, 
of three parts, i.e., English, Americans, 
and foreigners. 

Which statement was beautifully 
illustrated not long ago at table in a 
cafe in Belgrade when an American 
writer and an English engineer were 
sitting together. The Englishman was 
vainly trying to tell a waiter that he 
wanted some Irish stew. Finally he 
turned to the American in disgust. 

"Damn it !" he roared, "don't any of 
these foreigners understand English ?" 

And the American, laughing, under- 
stood the sentiment. 

It is said that it was against the 
Hessian mercenaries of King George 
that the early American colonists 
fought most bitterly. When a man 
speaks your own language there's 
always a chance and a temptation to 
talk it over; but a man who can't 
understand yoti is a foreigner. 

Then, looking at the situation from 
a commercial standpoint, Uncle Sam 
would be naturally bitter against the 






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aggressor in a war that upset his busi- 
ness and his three-meals-a-day-eight- 
hours-sleep routine. Business occupies 
a high altar in the United States. 
What if it will mean to them a gain of 
seventy-five million dollars in the 
wheat market ? It has also resulted 
in the retention of ten million bales 
of cotton, which ordinarily would 
have gone abroad, has destroyed the 
local market for the remaining five 
million bales, and the spectre of ruin 
stalks by the side of the Southern 
cotton farmer and the Southern busi- 
ness man. But for this struggle the 
products of the cotton farmers would 
be worth to-day more than a billion 
dollars. They had to face winter and 
Christmastide without the means to 
procure even the necessities of exist- 
ence, and their condition would indeed 
be desperate but for the "Buy a Bale" 
movement that has pervaded the rest 
of the country. 

Briefly, the war forced the people of 
the United States to economize — and 
that is a practice that does not come 
easy with them. The United States 
requires from three to five hundred 
million dollars a year to pay her debt 
to Europe, for interest, ocean freights, 
insurance, etc. For forty years it has 
been paid with cotton, but that is 
impossible now. To offset this con- 
dition, fewer luxuries are imported, 
and a heavy war tax is being collected. 

What if the war furnishes the United 
States an opportunity to expand 
foreign commerrce, advance in inter- 
national finance and build up home 
industries to supply goods that have 
been imported from Europe: — these 
things require capital. She cannot 
borrow from Europe. Additions to 
her stock must come from her own 
earnings and savings. 

As Professor Usher points out, the 
winner of this war will be in a position 
to -cut off American trade from South 
America. This could have been done 
long ago by Great Britain, because of 
her preponderate naval strength. The 
fact that she has not attempted to do 
it is all the evidence that Americans 
want that she will not do it. As far 
as Germany is concerned, there is no 
past experience on which to base a 
presumption. The Panama Canal was 
built with England's consent — indeed 
England actually cancelled treaties to 
remove obstacles from the way. The 
United States took Cuba and Porta 
Rica, and still holds Porta Rica with 
England's consent. England has never 
shown a disposition to interfere. If 
the Germans should win, by simply 
keeping American ships away, Ger- 
many could hold South America as a 
prize. American foreign trade is large- 
ly carried in English ships, but if Ger- 
many were to triumph it would be in 
her power to deprive Great Britain 

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•f every vessel. Then the United 
>tates, still dependent upon ships fly- 
ng another flag, could only send goods 
,vhere the owners of the ships were 
Wiling they should go. Thus, in a 
)erfectly peaceful way, the United 
itates might be deprived of access to 
he world's markets. 

These theoretical anticipations by 
'rofessor Usher have set America to 
hinking seriously. Someone has noted : 
'It is very significant that of all 
American comment upon the effect of 
he war on the United States, only in 
he event of a German victory is any 
isturbance feared. If the Allies win, 
he people of the United States know 
hat instead of being menaced, a 
[lenace will have been removed from 

Listen to what Collier's Weekly has 
say on the subject: "We shall 
bserve President Wilson's neutrality 
rder rigidly. And yet suppose Ger- 
lany should win ? Suppose Germany 
ccupied France, wiped out the British 
rmy, and swept the British navy from 
he sea ? Suppose all this had hap- 
pened, and we in the United States 
ad a day or two to think it over ? 
Vhat would we think and what would 
re do ? Our own notion is that if 
re were guided by ordinary prudence 
re would instantly recognize the 
eccssity of making our navy not less 
ban seven times as strong as it now is 
nd raising our standing army to a 
alf-million. Our German-American 
"lends who criticise us as being pre- 
idiced against the Fatherland would 
len themselves realize the real situa- 
on. With a triumph of the military 
jirit and of absolutism in Europe, we 
.mericans would have to step against 
ur wills into the shoes that France 
as stood in now for forty years." 

Uncle Sam has been made to think 
y such editorials as this. Just look- 
ig at the subject from a cold-blooded, 
etached, ratiocinative standpoint, 
ow could Uncle Sam be other than 
ro-Ally from the bottom of his shoes 
) the top of his star-spangled sky- 
iece ? 

Von Bemhardi notes in one of his 
ooks the statement by von Edelsheim, 

member of the general stafif of the 

^-man army, that "Germany cannot 
ly submit to the attacks of the 
. nucd States forever," and that she 
liust ask herself how she can "impose 
er will." Then he outlines his plans 
- to the proper way to defeat that 

was such skeletons as these that I 

■uiul Uncle Sam digging out of the 

'" iries and inspecting with eyes that 

td. I heard a number of Ameri- 

tiis discussing the impossible attitude 

li a certain German Admiral during 

je Spanish- American War, and the 

lorough lack of a sense of humor dis- 

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played by His Majesty of Prussia when 
an American naval officer admirably 
crystallized the Imperial Egotism in 
a song entitled "Me und Gott." 

But back of the sympathies that 
are born of a common speech and a 
close inter-relation of citizenship, back 
of the self-interest that would guard 
against disturbed business conditions 
and loss of trade, is the sincere abhor- 
ance of what Germany did and is doing 
to Belgium, and this abhorence is 
general throughout the United States. 
Letters like the following, sent out by 

the Belgian Food Relief Committee of 
Chicago, are bringing the cause of the 
Allies closest home to the American 
heart : 

"We appeal to you individually. 
The loss of life in this war is appalling. 
But more pathetic is the thought of 
women and children slowly dying of 
starvation. No bugles or banners or 
leaders to inspire them ! And yet 
more heart-breaking still is the thought 
of mothers watching their children 
starve. This will happen in Belgium - 
unless you and we help — our Ambas- 


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"If this, our appeal for the innocent 
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Belgium moves you, please sign the 
enclosed postal. We cannot stop this 
war, but each of us can help to stop 
this added horror." And then this 
postscript: "Remember, Europe sent 
$880,000 to Chicago immediately after 
our Great Fire. Let us not forget." 

Similar appeals, I discovered, are 
being made and responded to in almost 
every city and town throughout the 
nation. The "Buy a Barrel" of flour 
for Belgium movement spread like the 
top-spinning craze among boys. You 
have read in the papers of the "Christ- 
mas ship" sent by one of Uncle Sam's 
great newspapers. A large proportion 
of America's 100,000,000 people now 
feel that they have a personal interest 
in the brave little nation whose geo- 
graphical location in the path of a 
faithless neighbor was the sole cause 
of its misfortune. Because of the 
tragedy of Belgium the women in most 
of the big cities in the United States 
this Christmas refused to purchase 
"made in Germany" toys. Even in 
case of early peace — which America 
expects — it will be many,- many years 
before Uncle Sam begins to buy any 
large amount of supplies again from 
the "Fatherland." 

We must realize that the United 
States put the "yell" in yellow journal- 
ism. Occasionally a Hearst takes a 
jab at Britannia — and even Canada — 
whenever he thinks sensational news 
must needs be manufactured. And 
there are some American publications 
obviously subsidized by the Germans — 
which we should boycott. But do not 
for a moment think that these repre- 
sent public opinion over there. A trip 
across the line will convince you, as it 
did me. 

When Lord Roberts died at the 
front the editorial page of almost every 
American paper carried a stirring 
eulogy on his heroic character. When 
Turkey entered the war it meant that 
a stronger bond of friendship between 
the United States and England had 
been riveted. After the Canadian 
Contingent sailed for England, Ameri- 
cans watched eagerly for news of its 
arrival. They felt then as if they were 
personally represented in the war. 


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It was in an American restaurar 
The man sitting at the counter besi< 
me was evidently as much interest( 
in his newspaper as in his food. Aft 
a time he turned to me in delightf 
comraderie and said, with a pleasi 

"I see our Canadian friends made 
hit with Kitchener. I'll bet the G€ 
mans will find that the boys from o 
side of the water are some fighters." 

You see now why I ha\e come bai 
to Canada feeling that I have bo 
among our kind of people, — that the 
is no such animal as a boundary lir 



know that when "our boys" do them- 
ilves proud, the people of the United 
tates will share our gratification, 
"ruly the Kaiser made no greater 
lander than when he thought that the 
fnited States would give Germany its 
j.ipport and would immediately invade 
anada and endeavor to annex it. 
quote again from the Saturday 
mning Post: "For four thousand 
liles on the north a mere chalk line 
iparates us from the Britisn Empire, 
bbody on either side of the line is 
neasy about that. Years of fair 
^aling, mutual respect, courtesy and 
)od will will make infinitely stronger 
jfences than if we had all the Kaiser's 
)ldiers or all the King's ships." 
And then from Collier's: "As the 
ar rages on and we find ourselves 
Inched by it, we can and do thank 
od for good neighbors. Sometimes 
Clark says something that makes us 
ush for him ; but the nice thing about 
anadians is, they understand what a 
ose tongue is and pay very little 
:tention to it. A good deal used to 
said about annexing Canada, and 
jwadays every once in a while a man 
>mes back from there so full of admira- 
on that he wants to annex the United 
ates to Canada instanter; but most 
us feel — and we sincerely hope that 
anada can share the feeling — that 
;st being neighbors is the best thing 
r both of us. . . It is really a 
autiful thing to think of, this war- 
im winter, that we have never had a 
rious difference about our common 
operty. This is a good time to vow 
at we never will. Our Lady of the 
lows is not so cold as her title might 
id one to think. She is distinctly 
ir sort — and we hope she won't mind 
ir saying so." 

Let me add for the last time that 
mada and the United States are very 
uch alike. If Canada were not in 
e British Empire, it is probable that 
2 would be neutral, the same as the 
nited States is neutral. In the Civil 
ar Canada was neutral, but our 
ficial neutrality did not keep thou- 
nds of us from enlisting to preserve 
e Union. And after five decades of 
endship and interlocking business 
lations, is it surprising that Major- 
aieral Hughes has had thousands of 
iplications from American citizens 
10 desire to join our army for service 
.1 ? 

lada and the United States both 

e with Asquith that this war will 

nine whether the world is to be 

rned by citizens or soldiers." 

principle of life in both countries 

ctly opposed to militarism. The 

luted States knows war. It was 

Serman who gave it its fitting name. 

(id while it is a nation that loves 

face and seeks the blessings that 

Flow in its train, the United States 

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is com'ing' to realize more and more 
every day that the defeat of the Allies 
would mean permanent peace forever 
lost. Therefore it is my firm opinion 
that before Uncle Sam would see Ger- 
many triumph, he would climb down 
from the neutral fence, roll up his 
sleeves, and fight shoulder to shoulder 
with his Canadian cousin to help make 
the Kaiser plain Mr. Hohenzollern. 

Will Emperor William II Rex sign 
his name hereafter as William Wrecks ? 

The Live Coward 

Continued from page 158. 

against Bob's sturdy obtuse head with 
more freedom of tongue and less fear 
of gibe (for Bob had learned to listen 
with a lazy respect and had framed a 
number of little phrases which, inter- 
jected patly at proper intervals, en- 
abled him to seem to listen without 
undue effort of intellect). 

"You got a head on you like a tack, 
boy," Bob would say (meaning of 


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course the opposite) as, keeping an 
attitude of listening, he whistled soft 
airs, felt of the flaxen growth on that 
upper lip, or whittled a stick, during 
the Dawny dialogues which pre-empted 
their leisure time. 

It was a memorable conversation — 
singular too for being less a monologue 
than a dialogue — which Dawney and 
Bob had several days after the F"iery 
Cross flared into Oakbum. Bob, on 
pins and needles to enlist, had sought 
Dawney on a Sunday morning and 
the two had repaired to the sunny lee 
of a new-built haystack. 

"Well," said Bob, as he lit the pipe of 
cogitation and carefully killed the 
match under the heel of his harvest- 
boot, "what say, — eh, Dawney ? 
We're both husky critters, y'know, 
an' they'd take us in a minute ?" 

"Bob," admitted Dawney, a little 
sheepishly, rubbing his hand up and 
down the side of his face, "I don't 
want to go. What's the use of a war, 
anyway ?" 

"Don't want to go !" Bob took his 
pipe out of his mouth, and stared. 
"Don't want to go, Dawson ? I 
didn't surely hear you right ! Say 
that again." 

"You heard me right the first time," 
observed Dawney, his fingers wander- 
ing tenderly, of their own volition, 
toward the region where his belt-plate 
would have been if instead of being 
loosely habited in smock and overalls 
he had been snugly encased in the 
King's uniform. "What's the use of 
a fellow going to this war, and gettin' 
killed — or all crippled up, so's that 
he dies afterwards ?" 

"Why, we'd be fightin' — we'd see 
the world. We'd come back heroes, 
Dawsoji 1 What's come over you any- 
way ? You ust to talk to me about 
nothin' else but that there Napoleon 
all day long. Don't you want to be 
like him no more ?" 

"How," Dawney enquired, for reply, 
"would you like to get a bullet under 
your belt ? It wouldn't feel very 
nice, eh — would it ? All for nothin', 
too. That's war." 

"Yes, but we ain't all goin' to get 
shot, Dawson. Look at that George 
Pearce. All through the Boer war, 
and ain't got a scratch to show for 
it !" 

"Yes, but that don't say you would 
get off that easy," DawTiey said, turn- 
ing half around. "You might get 
shot in your first battle, — not dead, 
but through the stomach, or some- 
where like that. Then what ?" 

Bob put his pipe in his pocket, got 
up with immense scorn, and pulled 
down his coat-tail. 

"Then you're scared to go ?" he 

"Well, it ain't that, so much," said 
Dawney, a little redly; adding equi- 

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vocally, "you know how Pali's rhi 
matism cripples him up e\er\ fal 
I'm more use at home here than goir 
fightin'. They'll never miss me ove 

"Your Dad's rheumatism ought t 
make you aehamed o' yourself for nc 
goin,' " retorted Bob. "You kno^ 
how he got the start of it. Sleepii 
on the damp ground while he wa 
away with them volunteers in '8f 
He wasn't like you." 

Dawney writhed under this thrust 
He knew that his father, rheumatisr 



and all, was only held by his years 
from Valcartier Camp. 

"I bet you ain't talked to him the 
way you're talkin' now," continued 
|ob. "If you did, he'd kick you out 
' doors an' make you go. You know 
Dur Dad ain't no coward." 

Dawney took dogged refuge in an 
Id saying. "I'd rather," he said 
jowly, "be a live coward than a dead 
^hero. Bob Halliday." 

"Well, if that's how you feel about 
it," Bob's voice was level and full of 
contempt, "I ain't got no more to say 
to you. I bid you good-day !" 

So Bob went away to the training 
camp. Two other heady young 
patriots from Oakburn went with him. 
The village escorted them to the 
station with a brass band; and the 
Oakburn publicity commissioner, to 
whose intense initiative he owed his 
appointment to a position that another 
might easily have made a sinecure, 
turned up excitedly at the last moment 
with a clipping which he read to the 
three heroes from a soap-box on the 
station platform. 

"There you are, boys," he concluded, 
inflamingly, in the midst of a hurri- 
cane of anti-German howls, "that's 
what they'll do, if they ever get into 
Canaday here." 

Dawney, sitting apart from the 
crowd on a truck before the door of 
the little freight-shed, felt ostracized 
and humbled to the dust; although as 
a matter of fact no one noticed him 
either favorably or unfavorably. His 
heart warmed transiently as Bob, who 
had not spoken to him since that Sun- 
day, thrust a glowing face out of the 
car-window as it passed the point 
where Dawney sat, and yelled above 
the turmoil: "So-long, Dawson ! See 
you after the war !" — iDut it was with 
loneliness and doubt knocking at his 
heart that he later turned his team 
into the long and starlit homeward trail. 

Ten miles divided the Jenkins farm 
and Oakburn; and they were ten 
racking miles to Dawson. He turned 
over all his past (as one might take 
out an old copy-book and look in ic 
for blots); and was half-comforted, al- 
though a little puzzled, to find himself 
unable to recall any incident that had 
proved definitely he was a coward. 
Was it cowardly to shrink from pain ? 
Was a hero a person who could antici- 
pate pain without that chilly sensation 
at the temples and that electrical thrill 
creeping upward from the soles of the 
feet, that had followed Dawney's 
reading of the passage from Kipling ? 
Or was a hero merely a man who grew 
automatically intoxicated in the face 
of a threat (got "fighting-mad" all at 
once, was the guise this idea took, in 
the language of Dawney's thoughts) 
and hence had no time to weigh pos- 
sible eventualities ? 

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Dawney reached home without hav- 
ing decided whether he was a coward 
or not — and the question was quite 
chased out of his mind, for the time 
being anyway, in the mad ride he had 
immediately to take back again to 
town for tlie doctor. His father had 
had a "stroke," and had been uncon- 
scious for over an hour. 

In the mournful and grave responsi- 
bility which devolved upon Dawney 
with the death two days later of the 
work-worn head of the Jenkins house- 

hold, he had little time for study or 

He was so busy that he even forgot 
to be concerned as to whether lie was 
or was not a hero. He was so busy 
that he almost forgot there was a war 
and that he had turned down perhaps 
the finest chance he would ever have 
to get his name in the Oakburn paper. 
For it was harvest-time in Wheat- 
Land — the wonderful golden harvest- 
time; and the wind of the war, with 
its vast ill in other directions, blew 



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because of origrinal merit and continuous improvement. Latest model requires no tacks. 
Wood or tin rollers. The inventor's signature on every roller. Look for it. Take none without it. 



That will develop into i good position if you are not afraid to worlc. We want folks with good, rich blood, with 
determination, with happy dispositions and the "bound-to make-good-habit." A beginner ought to earn $20 
a week. and. many of our representatives make double this amount. If you make good we won't let you go. If 
you want, clean, honest, healthy, out-door work, write to-day. Address 


beneficently upon the farmer. Man 
.does not live by bread alone; but 
without bread he would be in sore cir- 
cumstance indeed. Moreover the 
agrarian, in the cereal Gibraltar of his 
garden and his grainfield, with his 
spick, clean dairy at hand and his fat 
fowls and hogs and cattle around, can 
snap his fingers at "financial strin- 
gency" and kindred evils of war. He 
has all the elements in the dietary 
right on his own~ land and in his own 
barnyard, and is sure of a taVjle well- 
spread whether his credit at the village 
grocery store is "good" or otherwise. 

So, although Dawney as head of the 
family. and heir to the Jenkins assets 
and liabilities was not long in learning 
that only the interest on the mortgage 
had been paid for several seasons, he 
did not commence worrying. He 
thrust his thumbs under his braces, 
looked across the splendid yellow 
acreage billowing away from the farm- 
house door and saw many times the 
amount of the interest and the harvest 
wages of Jim Dover, the hired man, 
in the million spiked heads and awns 
that nodded under the auspicious 
August sky. The crop would pay the 
machinery notes and current debts: 
the cows, the potato-hills and the fat 
porkers would do the rest. 

As Dawney, in the arduous days 
that followed, sat on his binder-seat, 
with the pitman-wheel roaring its 
iron tune and the grain-stalks falling 
on the table-canvas below, he found 
that he had not altogether lost his 
power to draw militant comparisons 
from homely things. Those stalwart 
stalks were sometimes to the whim- 
sical eye of his visioning an invading 
host. His binder was a terrific engine 
of war, with which he laid them in 
swaths and bound them to await his 
pleasure. Many a day it was the old 
Napoleonic Dawney who flourished 
his whip, though half-amused at him- 
self the while, and hummed with a vast 
destructiveness along the van of a 
countless army. 

Meanwhile one Max Friesen, in his 
town office, divided his time between 
conning over certain fat bunches of 
interest-bearing documents, zoned with 
elastic, and reading with some chagrin 
but with a certain grim confidence at 
the back of it, the European war news 
(such as it was !) retailed in the daily 
newspapers. There were three stages 
to Herr Friesen's treatment of a Can- 
adian newspaper: First, a fierce 
perusal, during which he turned the 
pages so vengefully that when he 
finished the sheets were a torn and 
crumpled chaos; second, a cramming 
of the mass into the waste-paper bas- 
ket and a jamming of it to the ver>' 
bottom thereof with his heavy boot- 
heel; third, a plentiful expectoration 
on it of tobacco-juice. These observe- 



Get Real Tire Economy! 

Motoring is two things — a pleasure and a 
business. One might say it was used sixty 
per cent, for entertainment and forty per 
cent, for commercial purposes. Yet no 
matter w^hether you use your car to get 
orders or ozone, your greatest economy 
will be the reduced cost of mishaps. 

No accident ever befel an automobile but 
what the tires were forced to play a part in 
it. And no accident ever was averted but 
what the tires had a say in that, too. 

If you will drive fast, 

If you w^ill make those sudden stops, 

If the city will water asphalt. 

If rain will make muddy roads ; 

Why then — the possibility of skidding 
will always be wth you, unless you figure 
on those elements of danger when you buy 
your tires. When you think of how to 
avert danger in motoring you immediately 
think of 


T. 113 


^-^ ^1 







Brings You Nearer to Buying Goodyears 

Tire efficiency has become so pronounced a science, that 
men no longer have to buy on conjecture or guess. To-day, 
most users know what to seek in a tire. And those who 
are experiencing tire trouble are surely coming to Good- 
years, the tires that have long won and held first place. 

Consistent Quality 

Consistent quality has won for 
Goodyears. Where others must 
experiment and change at the 
expense of users, Goodyear tires 
continue to give utmost service 
through super-quality. 

For Goodyears are well-balanced 
tires. Their quality and workman- 

Every loose tread will urge 
reduction of this risk. In Good- 
years — by a patent method — we 
reduce it by 60 per cent. 

Every puncture suggests our 
double thick All-Weather tread. 
So does skidding. So does wear. 

And Canada Made 

ship throughout are uniform. And 
the quality is always the same, 
whatever the size of the tire. Such 
master construction insures the tire 
economy and satisfaction that men 
have come to take for granted in 

Four Goodyear 

When other tires fail they bring 
you nearer to Goodyears in this 

Every rim-cut is bound to 
remind you that No-Rim-Cut tires 
avoid this. 

Every blow- 
out should 
suggest that 
our "On-Air" 
cure ends a 
very frequent 



Head Office, Toronto, Ontario Factory, Bowmanviile, Ontario 



No-Rim-Cut Tires 

With All-Weatber Treads or Smooth 

And Goodyears are made in 
Car.ada, at our Bowmanviile, On- 
tario, factory. Here exclusive 
methods andequipment ard master 
workmen assure you of utmost 
value that can be put into a tire. 
" The result is maximum sturdiness, 
the limit of safety, the minimum of 
trouble. You want the benefit. 
Soon or late that want will bring 
you to these matchless Goodyear 
tires. From that day on, you will 
never give them up. 

Start now — when our All-Weath- 
er tread offers 
winter secur- 
ity such as no 
other tread 
can offer. 

ances over, he would reach a stron 
hairy-hacked paw toward the elastic 
b<junfl bundle of indentures, strip th 
band off each in turn, and flick it ope 
with a certain savage joy. 

For it was a grave fact that most i 
those mortgages were signed with plai 
British 'names, and that Herr Ma 
Friesen, if he continued careful to pu 
down his window-blinds and not attra( 
attention by his anti-British paroxysn- 
held thus the incontestable legal whif 
hand of many Britons. But nation 
even those units of nations who presid 
over institutions so prosaic as couri 
of civil law, are touchy and sentiment, 
in war-time; and Herr Friesen kne 
well that if it became necessary t 
appeal to the law for settlement i 
any of those loan cases, it would t 
more discreet to come as a Britis 
citizen seeking his rights than as 
German citizen seeking gratificatioi 

So it was "God Save King George 
with him by daylight, and whe 
customers were calling; but in th 
seclusion of his office, evenings, whe 
his aboriginal bookkeeper and stem 
grapher had gone for the day, it W£ 
"Hoch der Kaiser;" and in his drean 
and over his morning coffee, whi 
Canadian cocks crow in the fine Cai 
adian morning, it was so; and so ri 
less and unintermittently, until int 
his Canadian office came a Canadia 
man, with money or the securit 
therefor in his Canadian breech( 
pocket. Then, and not till then, di 
Herr Max Friesen again transfer h 
allegiance grudgingly and temporaril 
to King George of Britain. And, i 
patriotism cannot be its real self whe 
exotic, and a patriot who can tram 
plant his essential quality like a cal 
bage is really no patriot at all, wh 
can blame Herr Max ? 

It maddened him, as his stout soli 
body moved like a tractive tower alon 
the street, cleaving its steady heav 
May through the thickest crowd, \ 
hear these puny, feather-brained alier 
about him declaim against the gres 
Fatherland and even say saucy thing 
about the Kaiser Himself; but Hci 
Friesen would ha\e been no Teuton 
he had not been able to mask the gree 
guns of his wrath and patiently bid 
his time. Many of the signatories c 
those mortgages he held had bee 
impro^ idently satisfied for several see 
sons past to merely pay their interes 
and let the principal "go." Usualh 
this is just what the holder of th 
mortgage wants (for one does not nee 
to lose sleep o\er delayed payment c 
principal when the security is goo 
Canadian farm land); but Herr Fri( 
sen, who was a militarist and a kaise 
himself in all but opportunity, ha 
that in his veins which told him. tha 
these blatant and unthrifty wester 
Canadians must be disciplined. 1 



Excess Value In Abundance 

The only ordinary thing about the 1915 Overland is the price. 

In every other respect it is an extraordinary value. 

The large tires — 34 inch x 4 inch — are unusual. 

So is the convenient arrangement of the electric controls. 

The switches are on the steering column— right where you want them. 

There is a high tension magneto. 

Many cars have only cheaper and ordinary battery systems, but 
the Overland, like all the high priced cars, has the finest high tension 

To be sure, other cars probably have some of these features, but only 
those cars which sell for very much more money. 

In the Overland you get the latest things and best of everything at 
an exceptionally moderate price. 

Look up the Overland dea'er in your town. Catalogue on request. 
Please address Department 3, 

Overland ModH 80 T 
Overland Model 80 R 
Overland Model 80 Coupe 

$1425 Overland Model 9,1 T 

$1390 Overland Model 91 R 

$2150 Six Cylinder Model 82 

All prices f. o. b. Hamilton, Ont. 


The Willys-Overland of Canada, Limited, Hamilton, Ont. 



Kill two birds with one stone and travel 

via THE 


to the 


If you are planning your 1915 trip to San Francisco, make sure your 
ticket reads via Canadian Pacific, otherwise you will miss the grandeur 
beauty of nature's most stupendous works — The Canadian Rockies. 




Are important tourist stop-over points on the Canadian Pacific Railway 
route to the Pacific Coast. These have excellent hotel accommodation, 
with opportunties for riding, climbing, swimming, boating and golf. 

Agents will personally call on you to arrange your itinerary. 
Write, phone or call on nearest C. P. R. Representative. 


General Tourist Agent, 

Canadian Pacific Railway, 





Offers a cordial welcome and courteous service to all. 


Rooms with Running Water - - $1.50 per day 
Rooms with Toilet and Running Water $2.00 per day 
Rooms with Bath and Toilet ... 

$2.50, $3.00, $3.50, $4.00 per dav 

galled him that he must go softly and 
tactfully about this disciplining, when 
he reached the stage of invoking the 
law; but the attainment of his pur- 
[jose was, after all, the main thing, — 
not the manner of the attainment. 
There was more about him of Prince 
Hismarck than of Wilhelm II. 

But, though he must keep up this 
farce of Canadian citizenship and all 
legiance to avoid the handicap of 
judicial prejudice, he could at least 
take to himself the satisfaction of being 
his own collector. In his own "blood 
and iron" presence, and under the 
imperious fire of his own ruthless 
Teutonic eye, would these farmers face 
the alternative of full back payments 
or immediate foreclosure. 

So, in the apt season of stubble and 
winnowing, Herr Friesen installed his 
brother Peter in the swivel-chair by 
the desk of his town office and himself 
took a ticket, with stopover privileges 
at all points, to the yellow west. 

It takes an old farmer, with years of 
experience, to estimate the return 
from a standing crop; and Dawney, 
although the season's yield was fairly 
good, found out on casting up the pro- 
ceeds of his grain-checks that, when 
his cash was distributed fairly over 
current debts, it would leave for his 
mortgage payment so little above the 
amount of the interest, that his most 
convenient plan would be to let the 
principal "go" again this season, as 
his father had been in the habit of 
doing, and merely pay the interest. 
Then, next year, he would break some 
more land on the pre-emption, put in 
a larger crop, and forthwith start 
wiping off the Jenkins land debt. So 
he and his mother sat up late one night, 
hammering out a sagacious little note 
to accompany his money order in favor 
of the Friesen Loan and Mortgage 
Company. They finished it just on 
the stroke of midnight, copied it out 
neatly on a fresh sheet of notepaper, 
sealed up the letter, and placed it 
behind the clock, ready for Jim Dover 
to take with him and mail when he 
drove to Oakbum with the plough- 
share next morning. 

Bugg>'-wheels on a country trail 
where the. dust lies thick, travel with a 
sound infinitely soft; and the footbfall 
of a horse on that soft gray dust- 
cushion is no more to be heard than 
the impact of water-drops on wool. 
So Dawney came out of the Jenkins 
stable next day before breakfast, 
having groomed and harnessed his 
team ready for the morning's work, 
without having received any auditory- 
hint of the approach of the Oakbum 
livery rig which he now saw standing 
outside the farmhouse door. "Steady" 
Cornwall, the sheik of Cornwall's 
Livery, occupied the rain-washed 
leather cushion under the buggy-top. 

New COAL OIL Light 

Beats Electric or Gasoline 

10 Days Free Trial 

Send No Money 



nit 1 

Costs You Nothing 

to try this wonderful new Aladdin kerosene 
(coal oil) mantle lamp 10 days riglit in your 
own home. You don't need to send us a cent 
m advance, and if you are not perfectly satis- 
fied, you may return it at our expense. 

Twice the Light 
on Half the Oil 

Recent tests by noted scientists at 14 leading 
Universities, prove the Aladdin gives more 
than twice the light and burns less than 
half as much oil as the best round wick 
open flame lamps on the market. Thus the 
Aladdin will pay for itself many times over 
m oil saved, to say nothing of the increased 
quantity and quality of pure white light it 
produces. A style for every need. 

Over Three Million 

people now enjoy the light of the Aladdin and 
every mail brings hundreds of enthusiastic 
letters from satisfied users endorsing it as the 
most wonderful light they have ever seen. 
Such comments as ' You have solved the prob- 
lem of rural home lighting"; "I could not think 
of parting with my Aladdin"; "The grandest 
thing on earth": "You could not buy it back 
at any price"; "Beats any light I have ever 
seen"; A blessing to any household"; "It is 
the acme of perfection"; "Better than I ever 
dreamed possible"; "Makes my light look like 
a tallow dip"; etc., etc., pour into our office 
every day. Good Housekeeping Institute, 
New York, tested and approved the Aladdin. 

We Will Give $1000 

to the person who shows us an oil lamp equal 
to the Aladdin (details of this Reward Offer 
given in our circular which will be sent you). 
Would we dare invite such comparison with 
another lights if there were any doubt about 
the superiority of the Aladdin? 

Get One FREE 

We want one user in each locality to advertiae and 
recommend the Alad.Iin. To that person we have a 
special introductory offer under which one lamp is 
Siven free. Just drop U9 a postal and we will send 
you full particulars about our great 10 Day Pr«« 
Trial Offer, and tell you how you can got one fra«. 


487 Aladdin Building MsntrMl and Winnipef. Cam. 

Largpst Kerosene (Coal Oil) Mantle 
Lamp House in the World, 

Men With Rigs Make Big Money 

[ delivering Aladdin himpa. No prrvious rx|n'riinct 
necessary. One farmt-r who h;i(l ntrvc-rsold anytliinir 
in his life made over SSOOJiO in six weeks. Another 

I Bays: 'I disposed of yi lamps out of 31 calls. 

fio Money Required we fumish capital 

— ' ^ ^ , ' r ' , '~ i — r *^^ reliable mcfi to 

get started. AhR for our distributor's Easy-Systcm- 
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loin World's Champions 

.1.3 more championshipa won by owners of lielle 
'Jity hatchinj^ outfits. Makus 

Belle City 

1 21 Times World's Champion 

I Free Book "Hatching 
,,^^-^ Facta" tells whole story, 
k ^mmW Mv SMO 6aW OHsrs egme wilh 
fra* ••■k— Mamy-laek Buarmir Hatching 
•HtftI ahawn In aclual ealari. Jim Rghan, Prai 
••lU City Incubator Co., Box 199 Racine. Wl=w 


" 'Day, Steady," said Dawney, as 
he slapped the nigh horse sociably on 
the belly and stopped for the little 
chat without which two never pass in 
Wheat-Land. "Out o' bed early this 
morning, eh ? What's th' excite- 
ment ?" 

Dawney looked mature and respon- 
sible, now that he was the head and 
mainstay of the Jenkins household. 
He had broadened out, too, during 
that summer season, and was as well- 
set-up a young Canadian as one might 
see thereabout. 

"What's up ?" he said again. 
"Invasion of the Germans," said 
"Steady," shutting one eye. "The 
Kaiser's got me hired for all of to- 

"Aw, talk sense," invited Dawney. 
"Well, that's right," said "Steady," 
reaching into his pocket for tobacco 
and blowing his old quid down into 
the ragweed between the buggy-wheels. 
"He's makin' a trip with me around 
this district. He ain't said much; but 
from some quest-ons he ast me, I 
figure he's goin' to make yous fellows 
rustle some money for Germany's war 

"I got to be goin'. Steady, I guess," 
said Dawney, dryly; "you make me 
hungry." He took his foot of! the 
hub and went leisurely on to the house. 
The door stood partially open; and 
as Dawney crossed the chip-pile, he 
pricked up his ears at a voice coming 
therequt — a voice that grated and 
rumbled by turns, like a howitzer 
drawn over harsh ground. 

There is in the Old World (not alone 
in much-decried Germany, but in just 
and equitable old Britain itself) a less 
exaggerated sense of the importance of 
womankind than appears common in 
North America. It is therefore to be 
conceded that Herr Friesen, in pre- 
senting the mortgage situation some- 
what strongly and rudely to Dawney's 
mother, was not to his own knowledge 
doing anything much out of the 
ordinary. Besides, most western 
women have as a matter of fact been a 
little spoiled by over-consideration 
and are apt to be somewhat short with 
the collector who is only after his just 
dues; and there is no denying that 
Mrs. Jenkins had received Herr Frie- 
sen's cold but moderate first advances 
with a highly untactful sharpness and 
loftiness. She was a little, quick- 
moving, hard-working, brown-eyed 
woman, with a wonderful tongue. 

Herr Max Friesen had a heavy still 
face, of an excellent ruddiness at the 
cheek-bones, and two eyes that looked 
out unwinkingly and filled with a slow 
fire as he talked. His back and 
shoulders from the door looked ele- 
phantine, and the snap of his finger- 
nail on the paper he held was like the 
crack of a whip. Mrs. Jenkins was 


A Sure and Safe Defence Against 
The Long Winter Siege. 




.-. All Pure Wool .-. 
Guaranteed Unshrinkable 


You can tike our word for it— but to 
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thinks of it. He is experienced^has spent 
many years in examining and handling all 
kinds of Underwear — ^therefore he is a 
qualified judge with no axe to grind be- 
yond building up his business and pleasing 
his customers. 


Look for the SHEEP on every Garment. 
In all sizes for Msn, Wo-mn and Children 

The C. TurnbuU Co. 

of Gait, Limited 
Gait :: Ont. 

Also Manufacturers of TurnbuU's Ribbed Under- 

iw ear for Ladies and Children—" M " Bands 

for Infants and " CEETEE " Shaker Knit 

Sweater Coats. 

Made in Canada for Over 59 Years 




Used in every civilized 
country on earth. Best 
and cheapest light for 
homes, stores, lactones 
and public buildings. 
Makes you independent of 
lightinjr companies. Over 
!W0 styles. Every lamp war- 
ranted. Makes and burnsits 
Own gas. lot) to ii,000 candle 
power. Agents wanted. Write 
to-day for catalogue and prices. 
463 East 8tb Street. 
Canton, O. 



More than 70 
Quartettes, too 

WHKN you rely on the EDISOX 
PHONOGRAPH for your winter's 
entertainment, you are not confined 
to Grand Opera Singers or Tango Dancing. 

For instance; there are more than sevent\' 
Quartette Records; from the frivolous "Great 
Big Blue Eyed Baby," and tender melodies 
like "Old Black Joe" to the magnificent quar- 
tette from " Rigoletto," Mozart's Twelfth 
Mass and beautiful sacred hymns as "Lead 
Kindly Light" and "Abide With Me." 




If you like music that thrills 
— that makes you feel as well 
as hear — ask the Edison Dealer 
to play some of the rousing selec- 
tions made expressly for the Edi- 
son Phonograph by the British 
Male Quartette — Knickerbocker 
Quartette — and Manhattan 
Ladies' Quartette. 

Then , you '11 be able to examine 
the Pldison for yourself — the 
diamond reproducing point, un- 
breakable and long playing 
records, superior motors and con- 
struction, concealed horns, and 
Cabinets made in true Period 
styles, in perfect harmony with 
the finest furniture. 

There are Edison dealers everywhere. Go to the one nearest you 
and ask for a free demonstration, or write us for complete information 

THOMAS A. EDISON, Inc., Orange, N. J. 





We carry a complete line of Edison Phonographs and Records, both 

Disc and Cylinder. 
Write for catalogues describing Mr. Edison's latest inventions, including his new genuine 
Diamond Reproducer, also particulars of our special distributing, price and new plan of 

easy payments. 




Long Distance Phone. 

standing back in a comer, with her 
two hands resting on her bnxjm-handle, 
looking for all the world as though she 
were about to use it as a weapon. 

The attitude of the two misled 
Dawney. Herr F"riesen had merely 
apjjroached close because it was an 
impressive German habit of his to 
stand immediately over and to frown 
down ujKjn those whom he interviewed, 
for the sake of the autocratic eflfeCt it 
had; but to Dawney it appeared as 
though this big invader with the 
thunderous Teutonic growl had backed 
his mother into a corner and was 
actually preparing to strike her. 

He crossed the room in two hops 
and flung his muscular young weight 
upon the intruder so zealously and 
unexpectedly that Herr Friesen, big 
as he was, toppled and fell backward 
into a most undignified sitting position 
on the floor. 

"Now," said Dawney, standing over 
him with sparkling eyes and fists hard- 
clenched, "what d'you mean by it, eh ? 
What d'you mean by squarin' up to 
my mother like that ? Who are you, 
anyway ?" 

Herr Friesen climbed to his feet, 
dusted himself off' slowly, and stared 
at Dawney with his pupils contracted 
to little glittering points of wrathful 
interrogation. He made a threatening 
step forward. Dawney, all in a pugna- 
cious glow, raised his guard and oscil- 
lated, his right fist eagerly, choosing a 
point to strike. But suddenly Herr 
Freisen drew himself up and laughed, — 
a great earthquake of a guffaw that 
shook the plates on the shelf. 

"So," he said presently, pulling his 
face into gravity with an effort, "you 
declare war on Cicrmanj'. Ho ! ho .' 

"I give you one minute to get out o' 
here," jerked out Dawney, "You needn't 
to think you're goin' to come bullyin' 
my mother, an' then make a joke out 
of it. No sirree !" 

"All the same," returned Herr Max, 
imperturably, "it is a joke, mein boy. 
It is one big joke. I was not about to 
hit the little mother." 

"No, no," said Mrs. Jenkins, laying 
her hand on the arm of the excited 
Dawney, "he was just talking about 
the mortgage. He says he wants his 

Dawney's fists unclenched and fell 
by slow stages to his sides. "Are you 
the man that holds the mortgage on 
our place ?" he enquired, a little 

Herr Friesen bowed, coldly and 
gravely, but with a certain twinkle in 
his eyes. 

"Well, I — well, we — ," Dawney be- 
gan, haltingly, "we was only figurin' 
on the — the interest, like — " 

"And supposing," Herr Max inter- 
rupted, suddenly, "I ask for one thou- 



sand dollars, at once. It is my right. 

, Shall I not then get it, boy ?" 

j Dawney rubbed his head. "I guess 

' we could hustle it for you," he said 

slowly, "but it would pinch us quite a 

bit, as things is." 

Herr Friesen, who seemed to be a 
man of quick, startling movements 
and queries, stepped forward with one 
sweeping stride, and stood over Daw- 
ney, his brows gathered in a kaiser-like 

"Look !" he said, measuring Daw- 
ney's shoulders with his hands and 
then placing his palms back against 
his own great shoulder-muscles, "I 
am wider than you, two span almost. 
I am higher than you, five inches. 
Yet you come upon me — from the 
back, so that I do not see you — and 
you pull me, a gentleman of Germany, 
from my feet on the floor down. What 
shall I say to that ?" 

"Well," said Dawney, apologetically, 
"1 thought you was goin' to hurt my 

"Nevertheless," said Herr Friesen, 
stripping off his coat with a deliberate 
movement, and turning back his shirt- 
cuffs from two great hairy wrists 
scarred with old fencing-wounds, "for 
what you have done, I shall now 
satisfaction demand. You shall have 
your wish, stripling. You shall now 
fight me — in the British way, with the 
shut hands !" 

Dawney's first sensation at this 
challenge made him stare and swallow. 
Then it was as if one-half of him stood 
away, watching the other half as 
anxiously as ever Spartan father 
watched Spartan son before a first 
battle. Would his heart — now that 
the sustaining filial impulse was gone — 
turn to water, and his knees knock 
together ? Would he waver before 
this Goliath ? True, he had "squared 
up" to him before; but it is far, far 
easier to give a challenge than to 
accept one. Would he falter ? Was 
he a coward ? 

For a moment, he had no reassuring 
sensation; and the sweat of appre- 
hension broke out in small beads on 
Dawney's brow. 

Then — then, with a joyful thrill 
and tingling in all his limbs; with a 
bracing warmth that, kindling in his 
heart like a coal fanned into flame, 
spread over him in swift glad radiation, 
till his cheeks glowed and his pulse 
raced and his brain swam in a kind of 
hot ether — Dawney Jenkins, dreamer 
and peace-lover, but child of a race 
of warriors and patriots, felt the spirit 
of intrepidity get upon its feet and 
dance within him. 

"Yes !" he cried, with his cheeks 
reddening and his eyes sparkling, 
"I'll fight — an' I'll give you what's 
comin' to you, too !" He tore off his 
smock, whacked it down on the tool- 

you love 

Why it is so rare 

A skin you love to touch is rarely found 
because so few people understand the skin 
and its needs. 

Begin now to take your slcin seriously. 

You can make it what you would love to 
have it by using the following treatment 

Make this treatment a daily habit 

Jast before retiring, work up a warm water 
lather of Woodbury'.s Facial Soap and rub it 
into the akin gently until the skin is softened, 
the pores opened and the face feels fresh and 

clean. Rinse In cooler water, then apply cold 
water — the colder the better — for a full min- 
ute. Whenever possible, rub your face for a 
few minutes with a piece of ice. Always dry 
the skin thoroughly. 

Use this treatment persistently for ten days 
or two weeks and your skin will show a marked 
improvement. Use Woodbury's regularly 
thereafter, and before long your skin will take 
on that finer texture, that greater freshness 
and clearness of "a skin you love to touch." 

Woodbury's Facial Soap is the work of a 
skin specialist. It cost 25c a cake. No one 
hesitates at the price after their first cake. 
Tear out the illustration of the cake below 
and put it in your purse as a reminder to get 
Woodbury's today. 

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For sale by Canadian druggists from coast to coast, 
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chest, and turned to face the big Ger- 
man with his fists ready. 

But Herrr Friesen did not advance 
upon him. The imperial frown, after 
a struggle, gave place to the smile it 
had been the means of concealing. 
Herr Max, with another of his brisk 
movements, turned to the table, drew 
an oblong document from the pocket 
of his coat, glanced at it, and thrust 
it into Dawney's hands. 

"There, take it," he said, his voice 
sunken to the deep bass that goes most 

appropriately with an exhibition of 
magnanimity. "You the tongue of 
these contemptible British speak; but 
you have the spirit of a man withal . 
You take off your coat to fight with 
me; and, Donner und Blitzen, I could 
eat you !" 

"Like hell you could," Dawney 
blurted, still glowing. 

"Well," said Herr Friesen, clapping 
the boy on the back with a thunder- 
bolt palm, "we will, as you would say, 
'let it go at that.' I your mortgage 


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give back to you, see — the token of a 
gentleman of Germany." 

Dawney's feelings, as Herr Friesen 
turned apruptly on his heel and left 
him with the indenture comfortably 
enclasped in his right palm, were 
beyond analysis. The big German 
stopped, with his toe on the iron step 
of the livery rig, and turning, caught 
again the eye of the Canadian boy. 
His big hand, the fingers held as though 
grasping the spindle of a goblet, shot 
suggestively above his head. 

"Hock der Kaiser !" he roared, his 
eyes twinkling. 

"Not by a dam' sight," shouted 
Dawney, grinning back, "God save 
King George !" 

The rig drove away. Dawney's 
mother took the envelope, broke it 
open eagerly, and scanned the stiff 
double sheet. 

"That's it, sonny," she cried, "that's 
it ! Here's your Pa's name on It, see. 
Well, he's a German; but it's a poor 
country where they can't raise some 
good ones, isn't it ? Just think of the 
place clear at last 1 I wish your poor 
father was here to see this !" 

But Dawney, still standing half- 
dizzily on the step, hardly even h^ard 
his mother's exclamations. His 
thoughts were far from mortgages. 
No Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien 
ever stood in a balmier atmosphere of 
rapture than Dawson Jenkins; as, 
with the rattle of the Friesen equipage 
dying away in his ears and that 
delicious intrepid tingle still busking 
him, singing to him Hke matial music, 
he stood, pressing against his mental 
palate the orange of the discovery he 
had made — that he was alive, unen- 
listed, and yet not a coward. Had he 
not declared war upon Germany, and 
won- — without striking a blow. Was 
he not, now and consciously, possessed 
by a feeling under the sustenance of 
which he could have grinned, with a 
dozen bullets in his spleen ! 

A theatrical advance agent, forced 
to lay over at a small junction point, 
was talking with the landlord of the 
village inn. "Do you ever have any 
shows here ?" he asked. 

"Wal — I reckon we do !" said the 
landlord. "Some of the best shows 
from New York play here." 

"Is that so ?" said the agent. "What 
was the last one that played this town?' ' 

"I don't rightly remember the 
name," returned the hotel man; "but 
my wife, she knows. I'll call and ask 

Going to the foot of the stairs, he 
called loudly: 

"Mar thy — Mar thy — look in that 
back room and tell me the names on 
them there trunks !" 



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and the Drama 






By Arthur Stringer 

Author of "The Woman vk the Rain,'" "The Wire Tappers," etc. * 

WILL you see the players well bestowed ?" demanded 
Hamlet of the pig-headed old Polonius who was 
amazedly blinking at the absurdity of an actor 
weeping over his part. "Do you hear, let them be well 
used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the 
time !" 

Hamlet was right. He was right in the face of the fact 
that this same pig-headed old materialist had no inkling 
of what his mad young friend was driving at. He only 
knew that he was being scolded, the same as Canada was 
scolded when Robert Barr announced that this country of 
ours spent considerably less money on literature than it 
did on Scotch whiskey. 

But Hamlet was right. The dramatist is, and always 
has Ijeen, peculiarly the voice of his age. The noblest and 
at the same time the truest expression of all national life 
has been through the drama. Era by era, from Euripides to 
Rostand, the great countries of this earth have articu- 
lated their greatness through the mimic world of the stage. 
From Sophocles to Sardou, the drama, holding the mirror 
up to nature and immortalizing in Art the thoughts and 
aspirations of the moment, has rendered the final verdict 
as to the rating of any given civilization. And it is Eng- 
land, we must remember, that can justly claim the suprem- 
est voice in all dramatic composition. Her Will of Avon 
stands unrivalled and unapproached. The creator oi 
Hamlet has no equal: that much even the Germans will 

YET there is one other fact which we must remember. 
And with that memory must come down our last 
ensign of national pride. Canada has no drama. 
< )ur great Dominion, flung from sea to sea, with a national 
life as abounding in vigor as it is distinctive in character, 
with the stamp of bigness on both its accomplishments and 
its potentialities, is without a stage of its own, is without 
a school of dramatists, and is without even so much as a 
tradition of criticism. Canada has not one actor or actress 
of its own. Nor has it one dramatic composition in any 
way expressive of its wider issues of existence. Nor has it 

CotyrithI, 1915. by the VANDERHOOP-CUNN 

a tatter of true comedy or tragedy in any way representa- 
tive of its social conditions. In other words, Canada is 
the only nation in the world whose stage is entirely and 
arbitrarily controlled by aliens. It is the only country of 
continental dimensions that depends on foreigners for that 
spiritual refreshment and inspiration which may and must 
be derived from theatric entertainment. And it seems the 
only country that, having achieved political independence, 
is content to stand divorced from dramatic consciousness. 

Not that Canada is without interest in the drama. Over 
four million dollars' worth of new theatres were built in this 
country during the three years that ended with 191 L 
From 1911 to the end of 1913, it has been publicly an- 
nounced, the sum of seven million dollars was spent for 
the same purpose. During the present season a provincial 
English company playing repertory in the mushroom city 
of Calgary (although headed, it must be acknowledged, by 
a London star of undoubted ability) is able to boast of 
weekly receipts exceeding twelve thousand dollars. Van- 
couver, the fourth city in the Dominion, is the proud 
possessor of no less than seven theatres. And in one sea- 
son the city of Toronto, it has been conservatively esti- 
mated, spends one and one-half million dollars in theatrical 

But we now approach the remarkable phase of this 
somewhat remarkable situation. Canada, it is true, spends 
its money lavishly enough on the theatre, and the Canadian 
city is as ready to profiler housing to the itinerant apostles 
of Thespis as is the rural town to lend a vacant lot for the 
tented glories of the visiting circus. But in the creation 
and control of that will-o-the-wisp chain of spectacles which 
flit like a stream of Halley's comets across its horizon, it 
has no voice and no influence. Its plays are sent to it by 
unseen powers, doubtless beneficent, but at times inscrut- 
able in their ministrations. At the door of the Canadian 
city, drama is dumped ready-made; and it must take what 
is given or go hungry. In the offices of kindhearted Heb- 
raic gentlemen along that far-off canyon of noise and vul- 
garity known to The Profession as "Broadway" are manipu- 

COMP ANY, LIMITED. All rithtt rumei. 217 


lated the strings of Canadian dra- 
matic destiny. From the theatrical 
standpoint, our Dominion is a mere 
appendage of New York. And some- 
times, from the metropolitan stand- 
point, the most that it can be called 
is an appendicle. 

It may be claimed, of course, that 
to be taken in arms by its older and 
wealthier neighbor is a matter of much 
luck for Canada. It is the luck of the 
youth so perfect in figure that he is 
never ill-commoded by the fit of the 
ready-made hand-me-down. Among 
other things, it saves money. The 
machinery for the exploitation of 
dramatic effort is a costly one. Then, 
too, co-operation and combination of 
interests is an undeniable tendency of 
the times. And under such circum- 
stances it is well that "Broadway" 
should stand as a Clearing House lor 
all theatrical organizations, weed out 
the incompetents, and duly distribute 
those which have won the seal of 
popular approval. For in a country 
of vast distances and sparse population, 
engrossed in the making of homes and 
towns and still oppressed with many 
of the burdens that obtain with pioneer 
conditions, it is indeed a fine thing to 
have sent from city to city well-trained 
companies and well-equipped pro- 
ductions, with the glitter of their 
metropolitan organization all about 
them, coruscating with the names of 
those stars who swim into our ken 
with the newest modes on their backs 
and the newest songs and slang on the 
tips of their tongues. It is a fine thing 
to have these big names and bigger 
companies swing into your city, and 
cater to your wishes, and swing out 
again overnight, demanding nothing 
but a few bits for an orchestra-seat 
and recognition of the fact that the 
ladies of the chorus, having crossed 
the Line, are now considerately wav- 
ing the Union Jack, at the grand finale, 
in lieu of the Stars and Stripes. 

It is a fine thing, but like all fine 
things that come too cheap, it has its 
flaws. Canada has no greater and 
closer friend than the United States. 
But the Winter Garden is not Columbia 
and that portion of Broadway which 
lies between Herald Square and Long- 
, acre of the Electric Signs is not all the 
Republic. Then, too, the drama is 
something more than a business. It 
is an Art, the one Art, notwithstand- 
ing what its noisier practitioners have 
done to it, that has remained expres- 
sive of nationality. And to have an 
Art such as this administered from 
either foreign soil or foreign sky-scraper- 
offices is not good for any country. 
In the first place, such a condition 
carries with it the invariable tendency 
to Americanize public sentiment. 
There is the equally constant practise 
of cramming down Canadian throats a 


type of character with which the 
Canadian does not racially sympathize, 
and of parading before him traits and 
tendencies to which he is fundamentally 
opposed. He may dream that he is 
ignoring ^hem, the same as he ignores 
the superlative Italian labels on his 
olive-oil bottles, but the mere tolera- 
tion of un-Canadian sentiments and 
the mere endurance of ideals that are 
exotic is not without its insidious 
results. It involves the continuous 
danger of denationalization. It alien- 
ates us from an Art in which we should 
be intimately and personally inter- 
ested. It develops a country-wide 
parasitism which leaves us invertebrate 
and passive in the most vital of cul- 
tural issues. It coerces us into the 
acceptance and encouragement of a 
literary product whose failure or suc- 
cess is determined by the critics and 
audiences of a country which is not 
our own, and a country, furthermore, 
astutely manipulated by the centraliz- 
ed and none too scrupulous interests 
of that motley aggregation of managers 
known as "Broadway." And since it 
comes to us ready-made, and not fitted 
to our tastes and our needs, we face 
the choice of adapting ourselves to its 
general tenor or going without theatri- 
cal amusement. To the enterprising 
Syndicate of New York, and to its 
equally enterprising rivals captained 
by the Shuberts, the territory that lies 
between the Rio Grande ancj the 
Saskatchewan is one and only one 
united democracy of Art roughly 
known as "The Road." Our provinces 
are parcelled out like so many states, 
and while self-aggrandizement may be 
one of the functions of the theatre on 
strictly home territory, it is not adding 
to the richness of Canadian national 
life when the children of the maple 
leaf sit in patient silence through those 
patriotic passages which the American 
audiences naturally enough can swallow 
whole and a George M. Cohan can so 
unctuously festoon with that glad Old 
Rag yclept the Stars and Stripes ! 
We share with the United States many 
of the social and economic problems of 
the century. We speak the same lan- 
guage, and in our relationship there ex- 
ists a camaraderie unknown between an\- 
of the powers of the Old World. But 
Canada is Canada, and our flag is not 
the flag of the United States of America. 
Yet theatrically we are a colony of 
those states; We are in a position ot 
subservience to them. This was never 
so forcibly brought home to me as 
when a Toronto author, who had writ- 
ten a really excellent war-drama deal- 
ing with the Wolfe and Montcalm con- 
flict at Quebec, explained that Frohman 
had agreed to accept his play on con- 
dition that he give it an American set- 
ting and revamp it into a war-drama 
of the Revolution. That Toronto 

author (when not toiling at his desk 
as a newspaper editor) had written 
many plays and spent many laborious 
nights in his efforts to master the 
technique of the drama. But he has 
not yet known a single production. 
And the chances are ten to one that 
he never will know a production- — for 
he was narrow-minded enough not to 
jump at the chance ot switching over- 
night the Plains of Abraham for the 
sisterly slopes of Bull Run. That 
Toronto author, who declined to sell 
his birthright for a mess ot box-office 
pottage, (and probably feels a bit s^rry 
that he couldn't) wants to be a dra- 
matist and at the same time he insists 
on being a Canadian — which is both 
an absurdity and an impossibility. 
Before he can be identified with the 
stage on this continent he must first 
denature all his primal impulses of 
patriotism. He must de-Canadianize 
himself, as every actor and actress 
and playwright who happened to be 
bom north of the Great Lakes has 
been compelled to do. 

There have been both play-actors 
and play-writers bom in Canada, it is 
true, yet the only benefit which either 
they or Canada derive from this e\ent 
seems to be the lubrications of the 
duly-posted ad\'ance-agent, who gets 
free advertising by periodically loading 
up the local press with what is known 
in the vernacular as "Old-Boy Guff." 
The phrase is inelegant, but not half 
so much so as the practise. One road 
actor, it might even be mentioned in 
passing, has been bom in no less than 
seven different towns in Ontario. 
Season by season this astute man ot 
business, emulating Homer himself, 
duly honors each of his natal towns 
with a professional \-isit, gives out 
interviews on his boyhood life, and 
after dilating on the old Swimming- 
Hole down by the big buttonwood 
and counting up the gate-receipts in 
Canadian silver, almost forgets that 
he really emanates from the East Side 
of New York and possesses a working 
knowledge of Yiddish ! If May Irwin 
and Henry Miller and Margaret Anglin 
and Edgar Selwyn and James Forbes 
and Viola Allen and Ernest Shipman 
and William Courtleigh and IVIarie 
Dressier all happened to be bom on 
Canadian soil, they swarmed from 
their native countr\" very much as- 
rats are said to swarm from a sinking 
vessel. To-day, either as actors or as 
dramatists, they are contributing 
nothing whatever to the distinctive 
culture of the country which gave- 
them birth. The only time they seem 
to remember that country' is when 
their route-list takes them across its- 
border. One member of this company 
publicly wrote to a N«w York publica- 
tion announcing that he was touring; 
Continued on page 259. 

The Voice of One Crying 

By James Church Alvord 

Illustrated by Charles Dean Cornwell 


^H— Oh— Oh-0-0-0" 
The sun was setting- behind 
Look-off mountain. A riot 
of scarlet flared across the 
horizon, melting into a primrose glow 
in the East. The gaunt crest smudged 
up against the dazzle, purpling through 
a hundred shades, transfigured at its 
top into violet edged with gold. Far 
below the wide plain was stolidly white 
with snow, but the black water of 
Minos Basin caught glints and flashes 
, from that gaudy sunset. Out of the 
whiteness farm-houses and church- 
spires pricked splashes of ink. The 
world was very cold and very magnifi- 
cent. On the flanks of the mountain 
a girl walked alone. 
"Oh— Oh— 0-0-0,— " 
Jedidah Tillotson stopped her 
scurry. Her face quivered, her body 
livered with fear; yet something in 
jler Nova Scotia soul steadied her. 
Her long inheritance from Puritanism 
bid her hsten to that human cry for 
help out of the white silence. Yet 
she had lived but one year on Look-ofI 
mountain and was horribly afraid. 

Suddenly another sound whiffed 
down the wind : the scudding feet of a 
horse. Twitching her skirts this way 
and that she crept into the brambles 
beside the road. The girl thrilled 
with panic. Then with a flash of iron 
against a stray flint in the road, a 
,cast-up sprinkle of icy particles, a 
liorse with wide-swinging stirrups 
^flashed past her hiding place, flung 
himself downward towards the village 
below. In a moment the rumble ot 
his flight dimmed in the distance. 

The girl crept out from her bushes, 
hesitated, gazing up the road, down 
the road — then tottered after the 
terrified animal, villageward. She 
was more panic-stricken than he. , 

For a rod or more she fled. Then a 
jerk came into her speed — she faltered 
— turned abruptly around. With 
flushed girlish face she barkened. 
Not a sound came. So, sturdily she 
began to trudge back along the lone- 
some road she had come. The line of 
gold died off its violet crest, the wilder- 
ness turned ashen, the dark waters of 
the Basin lost every flash. Only the 
snapping of a frozen twig, the tumble 
of snow loosened by the day's sunshine, 
spluttered through the quiet. On 
she plunged, shaking with every step- 
up the long slope — over into the dip 

A boy lay across the rude bridge 
which spans a brook. He seemed to 
the girl extraordinarily beautiful, his 
golden curls glimmering in the softened 
light, his blue eyes staring, his slim 


figure huddled against the snow. A 
wound jagged above one eye. His 
jacket, crumpled up beneath his arms, 
a fluff of frost on his curls, proved that 
he had been dragged after being thrown. 
He did not move. He did not even 
groan. Leaping at him Jedidah caught 
him into her lap and began to splash 
his face with handfuls of snow. 

He moaned at last, attempted to sit 
up; then slumped back into a second 
swoon. A moment later a shiver 
shook his body, almost a convulsion. 
Again he attempted to rise, gropingly. 
Realizing the presence of the girl he 
stifled down his cry. 

"I fell," he stuttered, "the horse 
slipped." He blinked around, "I must 

go — I — I — I must see her — see her 
right away." 

He tried his right foot on the ground 
gingerly. Jedidah caught him with a 
swift tenderness as the pallor flashed 
back into his face. 

The sky was as gray as farmhouse 
shingles when the two set off down the 
road. The windows of the scattered 
upland homes alone blazed like factory 
furnaces under the refraction of some 
invisible light. The boy half-hobbled, 
half-was-dragged , leaning against the 
girl. His arm clasped her shoulders, 
his hot breath palpitated against her 
uncovered neck. She had never been 
so embraced by a man. He mumbled 
thanking her. Once she stopped to 
unloose his shoe and rub the swollen 
ankle with the snow. The flesh puffed 
instantly. She could not draw on the 
shoe again. 

"I must see her — must see her — " 
he mumbled and limped wretchedly on. 
All the woman in her welled towards 

Half-a-mile from the village he col- 
lapsed and she was forced to hitch 
herself between his arms, dragging 
him across the crust as though he were 
a sledge. It was thus that Jud Slocum 
came upon them, laughed, yanked the 
boy up between his lusty arms, drop- 
ping him at length down on the Widow 
Tillotson's best bed in her best room. 
"Gee," sniffed Jud, "I'd a carried 
th' critter five mile. He's that light." 
He stripped the insensible youngster. 
When the poor fellow slipped back 
from the land of dreams to the .land of 
facts he sprang up in bed. 

"I must go," he babbled. "I must 
see her — " He shrank back at the 
sight of two strange women. 

Mrs. Tillotson fluttered over, 
motherhood in arms. "Lie back in 
the bed. Laddie !" she cooed, "Doctor'll 
be here in a minute." 

"Laddie?" he tossed it back at her 
in high dudgeon, "What do you know 
about that ? I'm twenty-five and 
I've a man's job on hand — Laddie !" 
A naked foot dropped out from be- 
tween the sheets and flashed the color 
into Jedidah's cheeks. The older 
woman laughed outright. 
"You can't," she temporized. 
His eyes danced up at her. "Cant's 
dead. Will is up and kicking." 
"Kicking ? — not with that foot." 
His face radiant in the candle flutter 
was vibrant with an unchanged nur- 



pose. "O, please — " he begged, 
"I must go. On my own horse, 
if he's to be found; on another 
if he's flown for good." He 
stretched the ,wrenched foot to 
the floor, trying his weight upon 
it cautiously; but Jedidah swept 
across the room at the sight of 
his sick pallor. 

"Perhaps we can carry the 
message," her voice fluted like 
a bob-o'- link's in June. "There 
are nine houses and six horses in 
Scrabble Hollow; something can 
be found." 

"There's a girl I must see," 
he answered, "a girl of Sqrabble 
Hollow. Perhaps she'll come to 
me." His eyes glinted with hope. 

"Who is she?" the face 
drooped over him tenderly. 

"Jedidah Tillotson." 

There fell a dull silence into 
the room. The girl incarna- 
dined painfully, the blood gushed 
over her face in spurts. She 
guessed his errand at once. But 
the look of the other hardened. 
She still wore her smile of 
motherliness but it turned wood- 
en. She sat in her low rocker 
her mouth petrified into the 
curves of some stolid, painted, 
smirking manikin propped up 
in a shop-window to hang clothes 
on. She lost for the nonce all 
humanitySn the ugliness of that 

The boy turned from one to one 
as if astounded that they didn't ^ 

know. "Why," he cried, "she 
must be here. She's lived here 
over a year now. Her father was the 
preacher over at Wolfboro, the Pres- 
byterian parson." 

The older woman allowed the smile 
to ooze from her lips. "You can't 
see Miss Tillotson;" she explained 
patiently, "she went of? to visit her 
grandmother last week." The min- 
ister's widow was keeping within the 
strict grounds of the literal truth — 
and lying brutally as she did so. 

He sat up with a jerk and his face, 
twisting from one "to the other, strug- 
gled to plumb the mystery of their 
changed aspect. "When will she re- 
turn ?" he demanded. 

"Those Tillotsonsare awfully close- 
mouthed;" croaked the widow, "no- 
body knows their business." A prank- 
ish malignity glittered in her eyes. 

The lad saw it and misinterpreted it. 
In his turn he blushed cruelly. "Yes," 
he confessed, "you've guessed right — 
I'm Jack Gait's brother. I'm Ben. 
But you needn't draw back so; I'm 
clean. I don't see why I shouldn't 
say I'm clean, if I am. Jack went 
wild. Did you know his wife — Mary 
Tillotson ?" 




"Yes, we knew her well," the girl 

The boy's voice rose unashamed. 
"Jack didn't kill Mary Tillotson," he 
affirmed. "Jack may be bad; but he 
isn't the murdering kind." He faced 
the two women defiantly and for a 
moment even the grim mother shivered 
under the fierceness of his regard. 
Gray ashes were no more like fire than 
she like womanhood in that dour 

"I was flat on my back during the 
trial," the young voice went on^ — 
"typhoid. I only sniffed out-of-door's 
air six weeks ago. Mother's dead. 
Mother's name was Annie; that 
means gentle. Father's name isn't 
Annie though." He sniffed amusedly 
at the well-worn family joke, despite 
his rush. "Father said, 'Let him die 
the death' — so did Fred and Wilfred 
and Jonas. But I — I guess my name 
is Annie; for I've come down to nose 
things out. Jack doesn't know what 
happened ; for Jedidah found her first, 
all alone in that lonesome farmhouse. 
Jedidah knows — knows that Jack 
didn't shoot Mary. She swore on the 

stand that Mary left no word; 
but Jack watched her face as 
she swore. So he knows she knows. 
I must see her — I must beg her 
on my knees to tell — I've got 
testimonials any way for the Min- 
ister of Justice. He's here, here 
in Wolfboro, only he leaves to- 
morrow for Boston. I must get 
those testimonials to him. They're 
rippin'." He flung the bed- 
clothes from him bounding out 
upon the floor. "It's late — late! 
Jack dies to-morrow night." 

Jedidah caught him. Her 
mother sat stonily by, that ma- 
lign glint quivering beneath her 
lids. "You mustn't," protested 
the girl and in fact he was faint 
with pain, "I'll find somebody to 
send. Leave it to me." She 
tucked him in again with deft 
touches and her mind was far 
away from Mar>' and her dim 
tragedy. The boy was hers, she 
had snatched him from the very 
jaws of the valley of the shadow 
of death — hers — hers — hers. "I 
can get Jud," she began. 

"Daughter!" boomed out the 
Widow Tillotson, her voice was 
as crass as a No'easter rumbling 
over Look-ofT top. 

"The papers are useless any- 
way," Jedidah hurried on intent 
to stop her mother from further 
outbreak. "Women testified that 
way at the trial, dozens of 'em. 
Women always will for a hand- 
some fellow. They look and 
then they leap — for the witness 
stand. Mother says so anyhow." 
She dropped her eyes to his face and 
decided that this Gait was the hand- 
somer of the two. Of her mother she 
was not afraid. She knew that her 
mother always overestimated the weak- 
ness of her character. Her father had 
been adored by his parish and run by 
his wife, so Mrs. Tillotson was incapa- 
ble of comprehending the drop of her 
own blood inside this gentle re-incar- 
nation of her husband she owned as 
daughter. But the iviest kind of an 
ivy vine can grow a trunk that's 

When the girl returned from her 
search the Doctor was ah-ah-ing over 
the patient, spattering about those 
polysyllabic phrases with which phy- 
sicians delight to mystify ordinary 
facts and mortals. It was a wicked 
sprain and wouldn't heal for weeks. 

"It's sixteen miles to Wolfsboro, a 
bitter night and the last train gone," 
she leaned over the bed-foot stating 
her discoveries, "but Jud will make the 
drive, catch the train that comes along 
after midnight, see the Minister at the 
Halifax Station — " 

"But will Jud be certain to do it 



right ? I must go— foot or no foot — 
I must go myself. I — " 

"Rank nonsense," roared the doc- 
tor, "incredible folly !" 

"Jud will do the thing for ten dol- 
lars," Jedidah went calmly on regard-